INDELIBLE 

A  Story  of 

Life,  Love,  and  Music 
In  Five  Movements 

BY 
ELLIOT  H.  PAUL 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(£be  fitocrsiDe  pce^  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  ELLIOT  H.  PACT. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


SECOND  IMPRESSION,  JULY,  10,22 
THIRD  IMPRESSION,  NOVEMBER,  Ip22 
FOURTH  IMPRESSION,  AFRO, 


CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


The  smile  of  the  night  and  the  day  entwined. 
Harmony,  the  august  marriage  of  love  and  hate. 
I  will  sing  the  God  of  the  two  mighty  wings. 
Eosanna  to  Life!  Hosanna  to  Death! 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

SAMUEL 

GOD'S  ERASERS  3 

Miss  STODDARD,  A  TREE,  AND  OTHERS  5 

DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  CHRISTIANS  10 

PLAYING  BIBLE  15 

CLIFTONDALE  17 

THE  SPARK  22 

THE  FLICKER  25 

TRIALS  31 

THANKSGIVING  36 

MALE  AND  FEMALE  42 

THE  TRUTH,  FOR  ONCE  46 

AMBITION  51 

KILLING  TIME  53 

LORD  FAUNTLEROT  65 

COINCIDENCE  71 

THE  SCALE  OF  C  77 

PART  H 

LENA 

STEERAGE  87 

PITTS  STREET  90 

•  • 

Vll 


CONTENTS 

"R-A-E-E-E-E-CKS"  96 

SAD  EYES,  SCRIPKA,  AND  BLACK  BRAIDS  101 

THE  CZAR  OF  WARD  EIGHT  108 

GREEN  STREET  114 

SHOPPING  122 

THE  VIOLIN  125 

PIPPINS  141 

PEARL  AND  OPAL  144 

"OLOV  HASHOLOM"  147 

PART  in 
ERASERS 

"THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND"  157 

TECHNIQUE  162 

VIOLIN  AND  PIANO  165 

NOT  MUCH  FOR  LOOKS  169 

TOLERANCE  172 

THE  STEEL  ERASER  174 

MARY  179 

THIRON'S  MISHAP  184 

MUSIC  AND  THE  MAILED  FlST  188 

EYES  NOT  AIMED  AT  192 

SEARCH  FOR  A  FACE  196 

DISAPPOINTMENT  202 

ODD  JOBS  210 

ETHEL'S  HAND  218 

AFTERGLOWS  229 

THE  WIND  CHANGES  231 

•  •• 

Vlll 


CONTENTS 

PART  IV 

ERASERS 

THE  REVERE  HOUSE  239 

SINS  OF  THE  FATHERS  243 

WELL  MEANT  249 

LIKE  A  DAUGHTER  255 

THE  APPARITION  260 

LIGHT  265 

Music  269 

PART  V 
LET  THEM  LIVE! 

BANG  GOES  THE  ROLL-TOP  DESK  !  273 

THANKSGIVING  284 

SAD  EYES  287 

MONSIEUR  MILLIKEN  292 

THE  VIOLIN  294 

LET  THEM  LIVE  !  296 


INDELIBLE 

•  • 

• 

PART  I:  SAMUEL 


INDELIBLE 

•     • 

PART  I:  SAMUEL 
GOD'S  ERASERS 

God  looks  o'er  the  world,  a  stupid,  cluttered  map  with 
many  billion  eyes  for  dots,  upstaring  helter-skelter. 
The  eyes  are  always  bright  to  start  with.  Every 
morning  the  new  ones  are  brig  hi.  Stillbirths  don't 
count. 

God  has  a  roll-top  desk,  and  in  the  pigeonholes, 
erasers. 

First  he  tries  a  brown  one,  Heritage.  He  rubs  the 
helter-skelter  map  and  weaker  dots  fade  out. 

Brush  away  the  debris. 

A  soiled  eraser,  Poverty,  sweeps  the  sheet.   Some 
are  called  and  many  weaken. 

Flick  the  dirt  away. 

Down  comes  Crime,  the  red  one,  and  eyes  are 
smudged  that  were  not  aimed  at.  Eruption,  Famine, 

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INDELIBLE 

Disease ;  Storm,  Pestilence,  Drought.  He  tries  them 
all  at  times. 

Divine  Impatience!   A  steel  eraser,  War,  which 
gashes  the  map  and  wipes  great  dead-white  furrows. 
A  rotten  job  to  clean  this  time. 

Believe  it  or  not,  there  are  still  brigJii  eyes  remain 
ing. 

Bang  goes  the  lid  of  the  roll-top  desk. 
Let  them  IweJ 


MISS  STODDARD,  A  TREE,  AND  OTHERS 

Miss  STODDARD  lives  in  a  little  house  across  the 
street  and  her  head  wiggles  a  bit,  especially  when 
she  thinks.  She  is  "queer,"  and  has  no  husband. 

The  little  house  has  dark  green  edges,  a  low 
picket  fence,  and  several  kinds  of  trees.  Behind  it 
is  a  garden  that  does  not  amount  to  much.  On  the 
side  of  the  sunset  are  three  sad  trees.  They  look 
tired,  although  they  have  nothing  to  do.  I  think 
they  must  be  just  tired  of  living.  People  who  have 
nothing  to  do  seem  to  feel  this  way,  also,  and  many 
people  in  Cliftondale  do  not  do  much  of  anything. 
The  sad  tree-trunks  are  twisted  like  rheumatism. 
There  are  many  thousand  slim  leaves  with  one 
bright  side,  and  the  sunlight  fizzes  through  them 
like  water  from  the  garden  hose  when  father  screws 
the  nozzle  up  tight.  The  twigs  are  not  stiff  as  other 
twigs,  but  are  yellow-green  and  droop  like  ladies' 
long  hair  being  washed. 

In  front  of  Miss  Stoddard's  house  is  a  sassafras 
tree,  but  it  is  really  very  beautiful.  Who  names 
trees?  The  sassafras  tree  is  not  sad,  but  stands 
straight  and  does  not  bend  easily.  The  leaves  turn 

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INDELIBLE 

red  and  yellow  long  before  it  is  time  for  them  to 
drop.  On  the  other  side  of  the  house  are  pear  trees 
with  little  hard  sick-green  things  hanging  down 
which  are  not  quite  good  to  eat,  but  the  boys  eat 
them.  Miss  Stoddard  must  know  they  are  not 
good  to  eat  because  she  does  not  chase  the  boys 
away. 

The  tree  the  birds  like  best  is  the  cherry  tree.  It 
is  always  full  of  birds  who  talk  all  at  once.  Birds 
can  talk  and  sing,  but  they  sing  much  more  than 
they  talk.  It  sounds  better  and  does  them  more 
good.  Miss  Stoddard  lets  the  boys  have  all  the 
cherries  they  can  eat  if  they  do  not  chase  the 
birds  out  of  her  trees.  The  boys  like  her  and  are 
careful  not  to  step  on  her  ferns  and  petunias.  Pe 
tunias,  like  sassafras,  are  much  prettier  than  their 
names. 

Flowers  in  the  Stoddard  yard  are  mixed  with 
ferns  and  look  happier  than  flowers  in  squares  and 
oblongs. 

Old  Mrs.  Stoddard  hates  boys  and  her  head 
wiggles  all  the  time,  although  she  is  too  old  to 
think  a  great  deal.  She  calls  Miss  Stoddard 
"Mary"  and  is  always  worried  about  her  because 
she  is  "queer."  The  old  lady  is  a  Baptist. 

6 


SAMUEL 

ONE  of  the  most  exciting  things  I  ever  saw  in 
Cliftondale  happened  on  account  of  a  tree  and 
Miss  Stoddard  and  others.  I  do  not  call  her  Mary 
because  children  should  not  be  disrespectful  until 
they  are  old  enough.  The  tree  I  am  talking  about 
is  the  biggest  in  town  and  grows  on  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk  between  our  house  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Holt's.  It  grows  woolly  things,  soft  like  caterpil 
lars,  which  smell  the  same  as  the  stuff  mother  puts 
on  her  hands  when  she  burns  them.  Mother  is  al 
ways  and  forever  burning  her  hands  because  she  is 
"nervous." 

"Nervous"  is  something  like  "queer,"  only  it  is 
in  our  own  family,  but  mother's  head  does  not  wig 
gle.  Only  her  chin  shakes  sometimes  when  I  am 
troublesome.  On  rainy  afternoons  and  when  I  am 
all  over  the  measles,  but  the  Board  of  Health  has 
not  taken  down  the  red  card,  I  am  very  trouble 
some. 

The  woolly  caterpillar  things  drop  off  the  big 
tree  and  cover  the  roof  and  sidewalk  and  a  part  of 
our  yard.  They  use  these  things  for  bandages  in 
Civil  Wars.  Mother  says  so,  but  I  do  not  see  how. 

One  day  two  men,  whose  blue  pants  came  up 
like  bibs  in  front  and  who  spit  brown  all  over  the 

7 


INDELIBLE 

place,  came  down  from  the  Street  Department 
with  a  big  saw  and  some  ropes.  Everybody  went 
to  the  front  windows,  but  Miss  Stoddard  ran 
across  the  street  with  her  head  shaking  and  talked 
to  the  men  very  rapidly.  One  of  the  men  asked  her, 
""What's  eatin'  yer?" —  and  that  made  her  still 
more  angry.  I  never  heard  a  woman  talk  alone 
before,  but  she  said  as  much  as  three  or  four 
together  usually  do.  She  said  that  if  the  Street 
Department  wanted  something  to  do,  there  were 
plenty  of  mudholes  in  Salem  Street  that  needed 
filling  in. 

Father  went  out  and  said  that  the  "damned  old 
tree  plugs  up  the  gutters  on  the  roof  and  wets  the 
ceilings."  Miss  Stoddard  was  so  mad  that  she 
talked  a  while  to  him  without  stopping.  She  said 
they  could  n't  cut  down  the  tree  without  a  "hear 
ing,"  and  the  men  looked  at  each  other  and  spit 
and  waited.  The  policeman  came  and  took  a  dirty 
brown  thing  from  one  of  the  men's  pockets  and 
then  he  spit  brown,  and  father  said,  "We'll  see 
about  this";  and  they  all  started  down  the  street 
together.  Miss  Stoddard  was  so  mad  she  did  not 
even  wear  a  hat.  Mother  stayed  at  home,  but  she 
was  upset. 

8 


SAMUEL 

When  father  came  back,  he  was  troublesome  all 
the  rest  of  the  day,  and  mother's  chin  trembled  and 
she  cried  because  she  had  never  heard  him  swear 
so  before.  Mother  does  not  like  to  have  us  keep 
things  from  her.  Miss  Stoddard  and  father  did  not 
walk  back  together. 

Such  things  do  not  often  happen  in  Cliftondale. 
It  is  a  pity. 

A  FEW  days  later,  the  men  with  blue  pants  that 
come  up  over  their  chests  came  back  bringing  a 
long  thing  with  steps  to  walk  up  on  trees  and  roofs 
with.  The  men  sawed  off  two  big  branches  of  the 
woolly  tree. 

I  was  careful  not  to  get  under  them  when  they 
spit.  It  made  such  an  awful  mess. 

Now  the  big  tree  does  not  block  the  gutters,  bui 
there  is  a  lot  of  it  left. 

This  is  a  much  better  arrangement. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  CHRISTIANS 

"THERE  goes  poor  old  Mann  Stoddard  off  to 
meetin*  alone,"  says  mother. 

The  Baptist  Church  is  in  the  next  town.  Old 
Mrs.  Stoddard 's  clothes  are  black,  and  she  ties  her 
hat  tight  around  her  head  with  black  ribbons.  Not 
a  bad  idea.  She  carries  an  umbrella  whether  it 
rains  or  not,  and  pumps  it  up  and  down  to  stop 
cars  and  read  the  signs  on  them.  Sometimes  she 
gets  on  the  cars. 

"Mary  is  a  selfish,  wicked  girl  to  let  her  poor 
mother  go  to  church  alone  week  after  week.  There 
she  is  now,  diggin'  in  that  garden." 

Miss  Stoddard  wears  a  big  calico  hat  in  the  gar 
den,  but  she  does  not  tie  the  strings.  Her  gloves 
are  large  and  they  flop.  I  cannot  understand  why 
mother  calls  her  a  girl,  but  I  suppose  it  is  because 
she  has  no  husband. 

"What  a  sight  for  a  Christian  neighborhood.  — 
Come  away  from  that  window,  Samuel.  —  It  seems 
to  me  the  police  ought  to  stop  such  goings-on. 
Workin'  right  there  in  plain  sight  on  the  Sabbath." 

10 


SAMUEL 

"Why  should  the  police  take  Miss  Stoddard  if 
she  digs?"  I  ask. 

"Do  you  know  what  day  this  is?  Thou  shalt  not 
work,  thou  shalt  not  play  on  this  the  Holy  Sabbath 
day,"  says  mother  like  a  recitation. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  the  Lord  God  rested  on  the  seventh 
day.  Six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  thy  work. 
Don't  you  remember  that  in  Sunday  School?" 
Mother  talks  like  the  Bible  after  she  is  dressed  up 
on  Sunday  morning  or  when  there  is  a  funeral. 

"I  thought  Sunday  was  the  first  day  of  the 
week." 

Chuckles  in  pipe  smoke.  Mother  turns  quick  to 
father. 

"Now,  you  needn't  laugh,  Alec.  It's  hard 
enough  to  bring  up  a  boy  without  your  encouragin' 
his  impudence."  Mother's  face  looks  stiff  as  if  she 
smelled  elderberry  wine.  "You  go  get  your  collar 
on  for  church.  We  never  get  there  until  the  min 
ister  is  started  on  the  sermon." 

Father  knocks  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  into  a 
saucer  and  sighs.  He  grunts.  Father  always 
grunts  just  before  doing  something  mother  tells 
him.  I  do  not  think  father  would  go  to  church  if 

11 


INDELIBLE 

mother  was  not  so  set  on  it.  Father  looks  better 
without  a  collar.  His  neck  is  brown  and  sweats 
when  he  is  dressed  up.  Mother  always  closes  the 
door  when  father  puts  on  his  collar  and  comes  out 
saying  something  about  a  bad  example  to  his  son. 
That  is  me,  but  I  do  not  wear  such  collars.  Father 
wears  a  small  black  necktie  with  a  hook  on  it.  It 
slants,  and  he  always  tucks  more  flaps  under  one 
side  of  his  collar  than  the  other.  His  Sunday  shirt 
is  stiff  and  white,  with  rust  marks  from  the  hot  iron. 
No  one  could  work  on  Sunday  if  they  were  dressed 
like  my  father.  Still,  such  clothes  are  not  restful. 

There  are  no  Alecs  in  the  Bible. 

Last  Sunday,  mother  was  so  mad  she  pinched 
my  arm  and  would  not  give  me  pudding  for  dinner. 
It  was  all  very  simple. 

I  wished  I  were  a  Catholic  because  they  go  to 
church  early  in  the  morning  and  get  it  over  with. 

CathoKcs  make  mother  madder  than  anything 
else.  They  go  "traipsin*  "  by  the  house  all  morn 
ing,  and  if  they  have  five  dollars  to  give  to  a  priest, 
they  can  sin  all  they  want  to.  Mother  says  so. 

I  could  never  get  five  dollars,  anyway. 

I  am  not  allowed  to  play  with  Catholic  boys,  but 
mother  does  not  know  them  all.  They  call  a  priest 

12 


SAMUEL 

'*  Father,"  and  take  off  their  hats  when  they  go  by 
the  Catholic  Church.  The  priest  is  very  kind.  I 
like  him  because  once  when  I  fell  and  hurt  myself 
he  picked  me  up  and  gave  me  an  apple.  Mother 
came  running  and  jerked  my  arm  all  the  way  into 
the  house,  and  said  that  if  I  ever  went  near  that 
"Idolater"  again,  she  would  thrash  me  good. 

I  asked  her  what  an  Idolater  is  and  she  said  a 
Papist.  That  also  puzzles  me,  but  asking  questions 
gets  me  nowhere. 

The  Sunday-School  lesson  to-day  is  about  a  good 
Samaritan. 

MR.  AND  MRS.  HOLT  are  Episcopalians  and  live 
next  door.  I  have  listened  outside  their  church. 
Episcopalians  read  out  of  a  prayer  book  and  have  a 
rector.  The  rector  reads  and  then  the  Episcopalians 
read  after  him,  but  he  can  read  faster  than  the  Epis 
copalians.  They  do  not  read  in  Gibberish  like  the 
Catholics  do.  It  is  all  right  to  play  with  them. 

Then  there  are  Methodists,  which  must  be  some 
thing  like  Congregationalists,  because  when  a  Meth 
odist  gets  mad  with  her  pastor,  she  comes  to  our 
church,  and  vice  versa. 

I  asked  father  what  church  Jesus  went  to,  and 
13 


INDELIBLE 

he  told  me  I  better  ask  my  mother.  Then  I  did  so 
and  she  said,  "There  were  no  churches  in  those 
days,  so  the  people  gathered  on  the  beach  to  hear 
Jesus/' 

That  seems  to  me  a  much  better  arrangement. 

Miss  Stoddard  is  an  Atheist,  mother  says.  That 
makes  mother  madder  than  anything  except  a 
Catholic  because  Atheists  do  not  go  to  church  at 
all  and  they  work  in  gardens  on  the  Lord's  Day. 

The  Catholic  Church  is  the  only  one  which  is 
anywhere  near  full  on  Sunday.  Lots  of  people  go 
in  and  out,  mostly  Irish  and  Micks,  but  I  never 
dared  look  through  the  door,  because  either  God 
would  strike  me  dead  or  mother  would  find  it  out. 


PLAYING  BIBLE 

THERE  is  a  Samuel  in  the  Bible  and  that  has  caused 
me  no  end  of  trouble. 

One  Sunday  our  Sunday-School  lesson  was  about 
Samuel  and  every  time  the  teacher  said  it,  all  the 
boys  and  girls  looked  at  me  and  laughed.  This 
seems  very  silly  to  me. 

A  man  named  Elkaner  had  two  wives,  one 
named  Hannah  and  the  other  named  Banana. 
Hannah  had  no  children  and  was  much  upset,  al 
though  her  husband  told  her  not  to  worry  because 
Banana  had  plenty.  But  Hannah  wanted  a  son, 
and  she  told  the  Lord  that  if  she  had  a  son  he 
should  serve  the  Lord  all  the  days  of  his  life  and 
never  have  his  hair  cut. 

This  seemed  to  be  a  good  arrangement,  so  Han 
nah  had  a  son  and  she  named  him  "Samuel," 
which  makes  no  end  of  trouble  for  me. 

Samuel  was  a  good  boy  and  went  to  live  with  a 
judge  named  Eli.  Judge  Murphy's  name  is  Mike, 
which  makes  mother  mad  as  can  be. 

Samuel  heard  a  voice  in  the  night  calling  him  and 
thought  it  was  Eli,  but  soon  found  he  was  mis 
taken.  After  Samuel  came  to  Eli's  room  several 

15 


INDELIBLE 

times,  Eli  told  him  to  say,  "  Speak,  Lord,  for  Thy 
servant  heareth";  and  not  to  wake  him  up  again. 
The  voice  called  "Samuel"  again,  and  the  boy  in 
the  Bible  said  what  Eli  told  him  to.  Then  the  Lord 
told  Samuel  about  a  lot  of  hard  luck  which  was 
coming  to  Eli  because  Eli's  sons  stole  meat  which 
belonged  to  the  Lord.  In  the  morning,  Eli  asked 
Samuel  what  had  happened  and  Samuel  gave  the 
whole  thing  away.  It  turned  out  to  be  true  and 
Samuel  was  made  judge  of  Israel,  one  of  the  most 
prominent  towns  in  the  Bible, 

EVER  since  that  lesson,  the  boys  who  do  not  have 
to  go  to  bed  as  early  as  I  do,  get  under  my  window 
and  holler,  "  Samuel,  Samuel." 

Mother  blames  me  for  the  whole  business. 

I  AM  going  to  get  even.  Peter  Brooks  is  one  of  the 
boys  that  yell  at  me  and  I  found  a  lesson  in  the 
back  of  the  Sunday-School  book  which  will  make 
him  laugh  on  the  other  side  of  his  face. 

I  am  going  to  ask  the  boys  to  play  Bible.  Then 
I  will  make-believe  I  am  a  Roman  soldier  and  take 
my  wooden  sword  and  wallop  Peter  in  the  ear  and 
see  how  he  likes  to  play  Bible, 


CLIFTONDALE 

FRED  ELDRIDGE  is  a  man  with  black  whiskers 
whose  wife  cannot  keep  a  hired  girl  more  than  a 
month  because  Fred  will  not  let  her  alone.  He 
talks  very  loud  and  is  always  laughing  about  some 
thing.  None  of  the  women  who  come  to  see  mother 
like  him,  but  they  talk  about  him  a  lot.  He  lives  in 
a  fine  house,  but  Mrs.  Holt  says  that  he  does  it  on 
his  wife's  money.  His  wife  is  fat  and  is  always  fan 
ning  herself. 

Mr.  Eldridge,  who  everybody  calls  Fred  without 
disrespect,  is  a  selectman  and  makes  speeches  on 
occasions.  An  occasion  is  when  people  gather  in 
the  town  hall  or  any  place  excepting  church.  Fred 
is  political  boss  of  Cliftondale,  but  I  cannot  see  for 
the  life  of  me  what  good  that  does  him.  I  can  re 
call  two  speeches  he  has  made.  One  was  about 
having  two  sessions  of  school,  morning  and  after 
noon,  instead  of  a  long  session  in  the  morning.  He 
was  very  witty,  and  said  that  the  mothers  should 
be  considered  first  and  should  not  have  the  chil 
dren  at  home  all  the  afternoon.  Fred  and  his  wife 
have  five  children.  The  other  speech  was  thrilling. 

17 


INDELIBLE 

It  was  about  the  grave  danger  Cliftondale  was  in 
if  a  conflagration  started.  Also  there  were  a  few 
words  about  a  fire  station. 

Fred  likes  to  make  speeches  on  occasions.  Fa 
ther  likes  him,  but  mother  does  not. 

This  is  also  true  of  Bill  Milliken,  who  has  broken 
his  poor  wife's  heart.  I  do  not  understand  this,  be 
cause  Bill's  wife  is  bigger  than  he  is  and  talks  with 
out  ceasing.  Almost  every  time  I  pass  their  house, 
she  is  talking  loudly  and  unkindly  to  Bill,  who 
seems  afraid  of  her. 

Mother  says  every  time  Bill  gets  a  nickel,  he 
goes  to  Chelsea  and  spends  it  for  rum.  When  Bill 
comes  back  from  Chelsea,  he  is  happy,  but  finds  it 
hard  to  walk  straight.  He  smells  like  the  keg  of 
elderberry  wine  father  keeps  in  the  barn  on  ac 
count  of  sickness.  Mother  says  Bill  is  a  drunkard, 
and  if  she  was  his  wife  she  would  give  him  poison. 
Father  says  that  if  Sarah  Milliken  was  his  wife,  he 
would  take  poison. 

Father  and  Fred  and  Bill  Milliken  sometimes 
play  cards  in  the  barn  and  have  all  been  sick  at  the 
same  time,  for  I  have  seen  them  drink  elderberry 
wine  once  or  twice.  Of  course,  I  do  not  say  any 
thing  to  mother  about  this,  for  wickedness  stirs  he* 

18 


SAMUEL 

up  dreadfully.  I  have  heard  her  say  that  cards  are 
instruments  of  Satan.  That  puzzles  me,  because 
Doc  Gregg,  a  deacon  in  our  church,  who  looks 
pious,  has  lots  of  cards  for  sale  in  his  drugstore. 

THERE  seems  to  be  some  hard  feeling  between  men 
and  their  wives, 

FATHER  does  not  have  a  job  like  other  men  in  the 
neighborhood.  He  takes  things  too  easy,  so  mother 
says. 

He  gets  up  early  in  the  morning  and  drives  to  a 
railroad  station  to  get  newspapers  in  big  bundles 
which  he  takes  to  several  places  before  other  peo 
ple  are  awake.  I  go  with  him  sometimes  and  I 
know  where  each  bundle  should  be  left. 

Things  are  very  quiet  and  damp,  early  in  the 
morning,  all  except  the  birds,  which  do  most  of 
their  talking  at  that  time.  The  air  tingles  and  I 
shiver  even  when  it  is  not  cold.  The  sunset  is  back 
wards  in  the  morning  and  the  colors  look  cleaner. 
Flowers  are  folded  up.  Getting  up  so  early  gives 
me  an  appetite  something  like  a  belly-ache.  I  won 
der  why  newspaper  bundles  come  so  early.  I 
should  like  to  carry  newspapers  around  to  people's 

19 


INDELIBLE 

houses,  but  mother  says  it  would  make  me  tough. 
There  are  worse  things  than  being  tough,  father 
said. 

Cats  and  dogs  are  sociable  in  the  morning,  and  I 
can  warm  my  hands  on  Daisy's  neck. 

IN  the  daytime,  father  has  a  carpet-cleaning  shop 
in  Melrose,  but  mother  says  he  dawdles  half  the 
day.  I  do  not  see  when  he  gets  time  to  dawdle.  I 
do  not  like  the  carpet-cleaning  shop  because  the 
water  around  the  yard  smells  bad  and  is  rusty- 
colored.  Inside,  the  shop  is  full  of  dust  which 
chokes  my  throat.  When  father  puts  down  carpets, 
I  go  with  him  to  many  strange  houses  and  hold  the 
tacks.  Sometimes  he  lets  me  hammer  the  tacks. 

Daisy  moves  slowly  because  she  is  so  fat,  and 
she  likes  father  so  well  that  she  follows  him  around 
and  talks  to  him  when  he  comes  back.  Mother 
says  father  makes  more  fuss  over  that  old  nag  than 
he  does  about  her.  He  cleans  out  her  stall  carefully 
and  spends  half  the  summer  getting  hay  for  her. 
All  the  boys  like  father,  especially  when  he  is  get 
ting  hay,  because  he  always  gives  them  a  ride  and 
lets  them  pack  the  hay  into  the  barn. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  father  is  quiet  as  can  be 
20 


SAMUEL 

when  he  goes  for  the  newspaper  bundles  because  he 
does  not  want  to  make  mother  cross  about  his 
working  on  the  Sabbath.  What  harm  does  it  do, 
when  there  is  nobody  else  awake  to  know  about  it? 
I  have  to  keep  the  funny  papers  out  in  the  barn. 
They  only  come  on  Sunday  and  no  Sunday  paper 
shall  ever  cross  oar  threshold. 

WOMEN  are  Christians  very  thoroughly,  all  except 
Miss  Stoddard. 

I  HAVE  thought  it  over  a  great  deal,  and  when  I 
grow  up  I  shall  be  an  Atheist  so  I  can  do  as  I  please 
on  Sunday. 


THE  SPARK 

BILL  MILLTKEN  has  taught  me  to  play  a  zither. 

One  day  I  was  passing  his  home  when  his  wife 
was  away  and  the  sounds  inside  made  me  tingle 
all  over.  It  was  like  brownies  frolicking  in  Jack 
Frost's  ice  palace.  I  looked  in  and  Bill  let  me  come 
and  watch  him. 

Sinners  are  always  easy  to  get  along  with. 

The  strings  on  the  left-hand  side  of  a  zither 
have  one  thick  brown  one  and  three  thin  ones  in  a 
bunch,  to  make  "chords."  Chords  are  different 
sounds  which  get  along  well  together.  They  are  the 
best  part  of  music,  because  tunes  do  not  amount 
to  much  without  them.  The  strings  the  tunes  come 
from  are  on  the  right,  and  the  higher  the  note,  the 
shorter  the  string.  "Do"  and  "Re"  have  a  string 
in  between  which  is  not  in  the  scale  we  sing  in 
school. 

I  do  not  like  music  in  school  because  the  girls 
and  boys  are  always  out  of  tune  and  my  voice 
squeaks  so  that  I  do  not  dare  to  sing  out  loud. 

Bill  asked  me  if  I  could  play,  and  I  never  will  for 
get  how  I  shivered  when  I  touched  the  big  brown 

22 


SAMUEL 

string  on  the  bottom  and  it  sang  like  a  jolly  bull 
frog.  It  made  me  want  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the 
same  time  if  such  a  thing  is  possible.  I  rubbed  my 
thumb  over  the  three  little  strings  and  got  a  chord. 
I  have  heard  the  chord  before.  It  is  "  do-me-sol," 
and  I  knew  it  was  right.  Then  I  tried  to  find  the 
tune  on  the  right  hand.  The  name  of  the  tune  is 
"Beautiful  Sunset."  Now  I  can  play  it  just  like 
Bill  does,  and  I  hear  it  singing  in  my  ears  all  the 
time,  zither  or  no  zither. 

Why  don't  people  play  and  sing  more,  especially 
husbands  and  wives?  In  church,  they  sing  out  of 
tune,  but  it  sounds  good  once  in  a  great  while. 

I  can  play  three  different  chords  on  the  zither 
and  there  must  be  many  more.  Music  makes  me 
feel  like  rainbows  and  birds  and  melting  icicles. 
Bill  has  an  old  zither  which  he  is  stringing  up  for 
me.  When  he  gets  it  done,  he  said  he  will  give  it  to 
me  so  I  can  play  at  home. 

What  a  pity  he  cannot  let  strong  drink  alone! 

The  strings  of  the  zither  wail  and  frighten  me 
when  Bill  tightens  them.  Peter  Brooks  has  a  har 
monica,  but  a  zither  is  much  better.  When  you 
blow  a  harmonica  in  and  out,  it  sounds  like  a  littlt 
donkey. 

23 


INDELIBLE 

Where  do  sounds  come  from?  I  hear  them  every 
where  now.  The  frogs  and  crickets  sing.  The  wind 
makes  sad  noises  and  the  water  in  the  brook  makea 
happy  ones.  In  the  night,  the  noises  are  lonesome, 
but  sometimes  I  like  night  noises  better. 

I  AM  going  to  be  a  musician  as  well  as  an  Atheist. . 


THE  FLICKER 

SCHOOL  has  opened  again,  and  I  am  glad  because 
I  am  going  to  take  piano  lessons.  The  boys  will 
laugh  at  me,  but  I  do  not  care.  It  happened  this 
way. 

There  is  a  song  we  sing  in  school  which  sounds 
well  in  places,  but  I  used  to  dread  it  because  it  ended 
wrong.  The  composer  is  Mozart  and  Burns  wrote 
the  words.  Every  time  we  came  to  the  end,  it  made 
me  squirm  and  stuff  up  my  ears.  Miss  Hayden,  the 
teacher,  saw  me  making  faces  one  day  and  did  n't 
like  it  at  all. 

"Samuel/*  she  said,  "what  are  you  making 
faces  about?" 

I  always  blush  when  the  teacher  speaks  to  me  in 
school  and  I  cannot  say  a  word  because  everybody 
looks  at  me  and  snickers. 

"Come  here,"  she  said,  very  cross.  I  stumbled 
on  the  way  up  and  the  class  laughed.  That  made 
Miss  Hayden  red  and  she  slapped  her  pointer  down 
on  the  desk.  I  was  scared. 

"What  did  you  make  faces  about?"  she  said* 
holding  my  face  tight  so  I  could  not  turn  away. 

25 


INDELIBLE 

"I  have  to  when  we  sing  'Would  be  my  queen/*1 
I  said,  feeling  foolish. 

"We  will  see  if  you  cannot  keep  your  face 
straight,"  said  Miss  Hay  den.  "Now,  children,  we 
will  sing  that  song  again." 

The  song  has  alto  and  soprano  which  go  to 
gether  all  right  until  the  last  line,  which  is,  "The 
brightest  jewel  in  my  crown,  would  be  my  queen, 
would  be  my  queen"  but  the  last  "queen"  is  not 
right.  I  felt  it  coming,  although  I  bit  my  lips 
hard  and  said  the  Lord's  prayer  to  myself  to  keep 
from  hearing,  but  my  face  puckered  on  that  last 
"queen" 

Whack  went  the  pointer  on  my  legs  until  my 
eyes  stung. 

"  Once  again,  children,"  —  madder  than  ever. 

I  kept  my  fists  tight  and  tried  to  think  about 
something  else,  but  my  face  twisted  just  before  the 
end,  and  this  time,  just  as  she  started  to  whack  my 
legs  with  the  pointer,  Mr.  Chase,  the  music  super 
visor,  came  in. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  he  said  to  Miss Hayden. 

I  was  so  mad  I  cried  right  out  loud  and  said  to 
him,  "The  end  of  that  song  is  not  right  and  I  can't 

help  making  faces," 

£6 


SAMUEL 

The  class  all  tittered,  and  that  made  me  want  to 
kill  them  all,  and  Miss  Hayden,  too. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mr.  Chase,  look 
ing  at  the  music.  "What  song  does  he  refer  to?" 
he  asked  of  Miss  Hayden,  who  seemed  sorry  he 
came.  She  pointed  it  out. 

"Let  us  hear  it  again,"  Mr.  Chase  said. 

I  got  ready  to  kick  her  in  the  shins  if  she 
whacked  me.  When  they  sang  the  second  "queen," 
Mr.  Chase  made  a  face,  too,  and  looked  closely 
at  the  book. 

"There  is  a  misprint,"  he  said.  "That  *E' 
should  be  natural  instead  of  flat.  We  must  take 
up  those  books  and  correct  them." 

I  never  saw  Miss  Hayden  so  mad.  God  pity  her 
husband. 

Mr.  Chase  took  me  with  him  to  the  principal's 
office  and  talked  very  kindly. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  said. 

"Samuel  Gray  don." 

"Do  you  study  music  outside  of  school?** 

"I  can  play  a  zither,"  I  said,  feeling  comfortable. 
Mr.  Chase  is  not  like  other  teachers. 

"How  did  you  know  that  note  was  wrong?"  he 
asked. 

27 


INDELIBLE 

"I  could  n't  help  making  faces  when  I  heard  it." 

"Well,  well,  well,"  he  chuckled.  "  Will  you  show 
me  where  you  live?" 

Then  Mr.  Chase  went  home  with  me,  right  in  the 
middle  of  school,  and  stopped  on  the  way  to  buy 
some  candy,  which  he  gave  me.  He  said,  "Well, 
well,  well,"  several  times  and  rubbed  his  hands  as 
if  he  enjoyed  the  whole  business.  Mother  looked 
worried  when  we  came  in,  for  I  am  a  dunce  in 
school  and  she  thought  I  was  being  expelled. 

Mr.  Chase  said,  "How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Gray- 
don?  I  am  the  music  supervisor." 

Mother  said  very  little,  but  fumbled  her  dress. 

"Samuel  has  a  gift  for  music.  I  think  it  would  be 
fine  if  he  could  have  piano  lessons." 

Mother  was  so  surprised  she  almost  choked. 
She  thinks  music  will  keep  me  from  being  tough, 
but  I  do  not  see  what  difference  it  makes.  Mr. 
Chase  told  her  the  whole  story,  and  said  I  had  been 
punished  unjustly,  and  made  her  quite  happy. 
She  said  surely  I  must  have  piano  lessons  if  he 
thought  it  advisable. 

Then  he  asked  me  to  play  the  zither,  and  I 
played  "Beautiful  Sunset"  better  than  usual. 

"Who  taught  you  that?"  he  inquired,  and  I  told 
,28 


SAMUEL 

him  about  Bill  Milliken,  and  he  rubbed  his  hands 
and  said,  "Well,  well,  well."  Then  he  showed  me 
how  to  play  the  same  chords  on  the  piano  that  I 
play  on  the  zither,  and  you  have  no  idea  how  won« 
derful  it  was.  Then  he  said,  "Let  us  try  it  to 
gether.  You  play  it  on  the  zither."  I  started  it 
again,  and  he  played  soft  chords  on  the  piano 
and  little  ripples  that  made  a  lump  come  in  my 
throat. 

"You  keep  perfect  time,"  he  said.  "You  will 
make  a  fine  player,  Samuel.  Let  me  see  your 
hands." 

I  rubbed  them  on  my  pants  to  get  them  clean 
and  then  showed  them  to  him. 

"Very  good,"  he  said.  Then  he  talked  some 
more  to  my  mother,  who  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  the  whole  business. 

"Who  would  you  recommend  for  a  teacher?" 
she  inquired. 

"Mr.  Flynn  is  very  good." 

Mother  turned  red,  and  I  knew  she  did  n't  like 
it,  because  Mr.  Flynn  is  Irish  and  Catholic.  Mr. 
Chase  went. 

The  same  evening,  mother  had  a  talk  with  father, 
who  did  n't  see  any  sense  in  it,  but  said  "All  right " 

29 


INDELIBLE 

after  a  few  words  by  mother.  I  am  going  to  take 
lessons  beginning  next  week,  but  not  from  Mr. 
Flynn,  because  mother  guessed  we  could  stick  to 
our  own  kind.  I  am  going  to  take  from  Miss 
Clafin,  who  plays  in  our  church.  I  am  sorry  she 
is  going  to  be  my  music  teacher  because  she  does 
not  always  hit  the  right  notes  herself. 

That  seems  more  important  to  me  than  Catho 
lics  and  Protestants. 


TRIALS 

Music  lessons  have  certain  drawbacks  because  the 
boys  make  fun  of  me.  The  only  other  boy  in  the 
neighborhood  who  takes  music  lessons  is  a  Catho 
lic  whose  name  is  Jack  Foley.  Jack  plays  the  vio 
lin  and  practices  two  hours  every  day.  Sometimes 
I  hang  around  his  house  and  listen.  The  low  tones 
have  a  feeling  like  a  great  glad  cat  purring,  but  the 
higher  you  go  on  a  violin,  the  more  it  is  likely  to 
squeak. 

Waiting  for  a  squeak  is  worse  than  hearing  it 
sooner  or  later. 

Jack  is  in  my  room  in  school  and  I  talk  with  him 
about  music  when  we  are  in  the  schoolyard.  I  wish 
he  was  not  a  Catholic  and  a  Mick,  because  I  like 
him.  Mother  will  not  let  me  invite  him  to  our 
house  for  that  reason. 

Many  girls  take  music  lessons,  mostly  piano,  but 
I  do  not  believe  a  girl  can  play  a  piano  as  hard  as  is 
sometimes  necessary.  One  night  there  was  a  con 
cert  in  our  church  which  cost  a  quarter.  I  got  a 
ticket  for  nothing  because  I  sold  ten  tickets.  I  am 
very  much  ashamed  when  I  ask  people  to  buy 

81 


INDELIBLE 

tickets,  and  I  will  not  do  it  when  the  church  has 
bean  suppers,  but  a  concert  is  different. 

I  will  never  forget  that  concert.  A  tall  man  with 
a  chin  way  down  on  his  neck  sang  what  is  called  a 
bass  solo  which  made  gooseflesh  all  over  me.  The 
name  of  the  song  was  "King  of  the  Forest  Am  I/' 
and  while  the  tall  man  was  resting  between  verses, 
another  man  who  was  playing  the  piano  struck 
some  chords  way  down  in  the  grumbling  strings 
harder  than  a  woman  could  do  it.  Every  time  I 
think  of  those  chords  I  can  see  lions  fighting  and 
I  cried  at  the  concert  when  it  happened. 

Father  said,  "What  in  hell  ails  the  boy?*'  and 
mother's  face  became  righteously  indignant  and 
said,  "Hush,  Alec,"  mad  as  could  be.  It  seems  as  if 
father  uses  the  name  of  the  Lord  in  vain  when  he  is 
dressed  up  in  a  white  shirt  and  collar  and  a  black 
tie  with  a  hook  on  it. 

One  girl  in  Cliftondale,  whose  name  is  Hazel, 
plays  the  cornet.  She  plays  wonderfully,  and  I 
don't  see  how  a  girl  can  get  such  a  strong  clean 
noise  by  just  blowing  a  cornet.  She  played  "The 
Palms"  at  a  concert.  I  love  to  hear  her  play,  but  I 
do  not  look  at  her  while  she  is  playing,  because 
sometimes,  when  the  notes  are  especially  high,  her 

32 


SAMUEL 

ryes  get  crossed,  and  I  am  so  afraid  the  cornet  will 
slip  that  I  hold  my  breath  all  through  the  piece. 

The  boys  make  fun  of  me  because  I  play  the 
piano,  which  they  think  is  for  girls.  The  girls  make 
fun  of  Hazel  because  she  plays  the  cornet  which 
they  think  is  for  boys. 

A  hard  lot  falls  to  a  musician. 

Violins  seem  to  be  all  right  for  both  boys  and 
girls.  The  boys  in  our  neighborhood  do  not  make 
fun  of  Jack  Foley  because,  although  they  are 
Protestants,  he  is  not  afraid  of  anybody. 

Fighting  seems  silly  to  me,  and  I  am  not  sure 
who  I  can  lick  because  I  am  so  good-natured. 

PETER  BROOKS  called  me  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy 
one  day  when  I  was  going  to  take  my  music  lesson. 
I  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  but  I  did  not  like 
the  sound  of  it  from  the  first. 

Miss  Stoddard  has  more  books  than  anybody 
in  Cliftondale.  I  have  even  seen  her  reading  the 
Bible,  which  does  »'t  seem  right  for  a  person  of  her 
habits.  She  reads  stories  to  me  on  Sunday  after 
noons.  Mother  does  not  like  it,  because  Miss  Stod 
dard  is  an  Atheist,  but  she  lets  me  go  to  keep  me 
quiet.  Last  Sunday,  Miss  Stoddard  read  me  about 

S3 


INDELIBLE 

Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  and  it  made  me  good  and 
mad.  If  Peter  Brooks  had  been  there  I  would  have 
punched  him  in  the  eye  for  calling  me  that.  Lord 
Fauntleroy  was  a  sissie  who  wore  velvet  pants, 
even  on  week  days.  Just  because  I  take  music  les 
sons,  I  do  not  have  to  be  called  names  like  that. 
When  she  had  finished  reading,  she  asked  me  how 
I  liked  it,  and  I  said  I  liked  the  Russian  stories 
much  better.  She  smiled  and  her  head  wiggled  and 
she  said  there  is  some  hope  for  me. 

A  person  can  be  honest  with  Miss  Stoddard. 
She  is  so  contrary  that  she  likes  it. 

The  Russian  fairy  stories  are  nicer  than  any 
thing  except  music.  There  are  moujiks  with 
pointed  black  beards  like  the  right-hand  one  on 
cough-drops  boxes.  The  moujiks  have  big  fire 
places  which  crackle  and  they  sleep  on  the  stove. 
What  a  climate  they  must  have!  Russians  are  al 
ways  and  forever  going  on  sleigh-rides.  The  horses 
are  spirited,  much  more  so  than  Daisy,  and  they 
have  hoops  on  their  necks  with  lots  of  bells.  The 
stories  sound  as  if  there  are  big  drifts  of  snow  in 
Russia,  white  and  smooth  and  deep.  The  snow  in 
Cliftondale  is  sloppy  and  wet  and  gets  dirty  in  no 
time. 

84 


SAMUEL 

I  asked  mother  about  Russian  snow  and  she  told 
me  not  to  bother  my  head  about  such  foreign  non 
sense.  The  U.S.A.  is  good  enough  for  us,  she  said. 
If  Russia  was  any  good,  the  dirty  Jews  would 
stay  there.  Mother  hates  Jews,  although  they  are 
spoken  very  highly  of  in  the  Bible. 

I  asked  mother  if  Jesus  was  a  Jew,  and  she  said, 
"No,  Jesus  was  the  Son  of  God." 

"Where  did  Joseph  come  in?"  I  said,  and  father 
choked. 

Mother  said,  "That  boy  will  be  the  death  of  me." 

I  GUESS  the  only  place  to  find  out  about  religion 
is  in  church,  but  they  talk  so  queer  in  church  and 
Sunday  School,  which  is  attached,  that  it  is  beyond 
my  comprehension.  For  a  long  time,  I  did  not  ask 
Miss  Stoddard  on  account  of  her  having  no  reli 
gion,  but  one  day  I  was  thinking  and  she  asked  me 
what  I  was  thinking  about.  Then  I  asked  whether 
Jesus  was  the  Son  of  God  or  if  Joseph  was  his  father. 

"What  difference  does  it  make  who  his  father 
was?  He  was  a  great,  good  man  who  tried  hard  to 
show  us  how  to  live." 

That  is  the  most  sensible  thing  I  ever  heard 
about  Jesus,  but  it  does  n't  sound  a  bit  religious. 


THANKSGIVING 

MOTHER  has  a  crippled  hand  now,  the  right  one, 
and  I  am  so  sorry  for  her  that  I  stay  in  the  house 
and  help  her  with  the  work,  and  I  only  practice  a 
half  an  hour  at  a  time,  it  gets  on  her  nerves  so. 

Thanksgiving  morning,  she  was  cutting  a 
squash  and  knocked  a  little  skin  off  of  her  thumb. 
I  do  not  see  how  such  a  little  thing  could  make  so 
much  trouble,  but  it  blood-poisoned  her. 

A  few  days  afterward,  mother  was  sick  in  bed 
and  she  called  Dr.  Lawrence,  who  asked  her  a  lot 
of  things  and  took  her  temperature,  which  caused 
him  to  say  "Hmmmm."  That  did  n't  do  any 
good.  Just  as  he  was  leaving,  mother  said,  "I  have 
a  little  cut  on  my  thumb  which  has  swelled  consid 
erable."  He  did  n't  see  it  before,  because  it  was 
under  the  bedclothes,  and  mother  did  n't  think 
anything  of  it. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  his  face.  From  then 
on  things  happened  thick  and  fast.  He  sent  me 
across  the  street  for  Miss  Stoddard,  who  knows  all 
about  sickness,  although  she  never  had  children  of 
her  own.  A  bed  was  moved  downstairs.  I  hung 

86 


SAMUEL 

around  in  the  next  room  and  mother  screamed  so  I 
stuffed  up  my  ears  and  bit  my  lips  till  they  bled. 
The  doctor  said  something  about  its  being  better 
now  that  it  was  lanced,  and  Miss  Stoddard  came 
out  with  a  wash-basin  full  of  blood,  and  then  father 
came  home  and  the  doctor  talked  low  to  him  quite 
a  while.  The  doctor  then  left,  saying  he  would 
return  later. 

Things  went  from  bad  to  worse.  Mother  did  not 
get  better,  and  I  do  not  see  how  she  could,  minus  a 
whole  wash-basin  full  of  blood.  The  doctor  came 
twice  a  day  and  mother  screamed  every  time  he 
came. 

I  wish  they  would  let  me  into  the  room,  because 
if  I  can  see  a  thing,  it  is  not  so  dreadful. 

In  the  meantime,  our  coal  gave  out  and  we  could 
not  get  any  on  account  of  a  coal  strike  for  which 
some  foreign  agitators  ought  to  be  hung.  Nobody 
could  get  coal  and  we  had  a  terrific  freezing  spell.  I 
do  not  know  how  many  people  said  they  would  like 
to  see  the  militia  called  out  and  the  strikers  shot 
down  like  dogs. 

Father  looked  as  sick  as  mother.  He  would  n't 
say  a  word,  he  was  so  dependent  on  her,  but  just 
sat  around  rubbing  his  fingers,  and  every  five 

37 


INDELIBLE 

minutes  he  would  go  in  and  look  at  her  and  come 
out  more  dependent  than  ever.  At  last  I  sneaked 
in  with  him. 

I  shall  never  forget  it. 

Mother's  eyes  were  staring  wide  open  and  she 
was  talking  to  herself.  Miss  Stoddard  was  holding 
her  arm  tight.  It  was  wrapped  in  cotton  batting. 
Mother  did  not  seem  to  know  father  and  I,  al 
though  she  looked  right  at  us. 

The  doorbell  rang  and  I  almost  fainted.  Father 
broke  down,  and  Miss  Stoddard  said,  "For  Heav 
en's  sake,  get  out,  Alee." 

Dr.  Lawrence  came  in  and  had  Dr.  Maginnis 
with  him.  Dr.  Maginnis  is  just  like  a  bear.  He 
wore  a  big  fur  coat  and  gloves  and  his  voice  is 
deeper  than  the  man  who  sang  "  King  of  the  Forest 
Am  I.'V  Dr.  Maginnis  went  to  the  dining-room 
table,  took  an  apple,  and  started  to  eat  it. 

"Where  is  the  patient?"  he  asked,  so  loud  I  al 
most  fell  over.  He  meant  my  mother. 

A  patient  is  somebody  who  owes  a  doctor's  bill. 

The  doctors  went  in  and  I  waited  outside  the 
door,  knowing  something  was  going  to  happen.  Dr. 
Maginnis  "Hmmmm'd"  an  octave  lower  than 
Dr.  Lawrence,  and  said  to  Miss  Stoddard,  "When 

38 


SAMUEL 

did  you  get  any  sleep  last?*'  but  Miss  Stoddard 
did  n't  say  anything,  because  the  doctor  is  sup 
posed  to  ask  his  questions  to  the  patient. 

Terrible  noises  came  through  the  door. 

"Let  me  see ! "  —  bass.  "  Hmmmm  "  —  falsetto. 
"Hmmmm"  —  basso. 

Mother  screamed  and  screamed,  and  father  said, 
"For  God's  sake,  be  careful,  doc,"  and  Dr.  Magin- 
nis  said,  "You  go  to  Maiden  as  fast  as  you  can, 
Alec,  and  get  me  a  small  package  of  absorbent  cot 
ton."  Father  hurried  out,  and  when  he  was  gone, 
Dr.  Maginnis  said,  "Now  maybe  we  can  do  some- 
thing,  doctor." 

Doctors  call  each  other  doctor. 

Mother  shrieked  again,  and  I  knew  Dr.  Maginnis 
was  doing  something,  but  somehow  I  felt  he  knew 
what  he  was  about  better  than  anybody  except 
Miss  Stoddard.  Then  I  heard  his  voice  and  things 
began  to  swim  around  me.  I  never  sweat  so  in 
cold  weather.  He  said,  "There's  a  slim  chance  we 
won't  have  to  take  off  that  arm.  Her  other  hand  is 
swollen."  That  paralyzed  me  like  a  snake. 

They  sent  for  Mrs.  Holt  and  I  waited  close  to  the 
door.  Then  I  smelled  a  sharp  biting  smell  which 
made  me  sick  to  my  stomach,  almost.  I  heard  things 

39 


INDELIBLE 

dropping  into  wash-basins  and  water  dripping  and 
Dr.  Maginnis  grunting.  It  seemed  hours,  and  at  last 
I  had  to  open  the  door  and  take  a  look. 

It  is  a  good  thing  I  did.  They  were  crowded 
around  mother,  who  had  something  over  her  nose, 
and  just  then  the  lamp  swayed  and  Dr.  Maginnis 
caught  it  and  Mrs.  Holt  fell  down  hard  on  the 
floor.  Dr.  Maginnis  swore  something  awful  and 
rolled  her  away  with  his  foot,  and  said,  "Isn't 
there  somebody  to  hold  the  lamp!  We  can't  stop 
now." 

The  first  thing  I  knew,  my  legs  were  walking 
over,  and  I  had  the  lamp,  and  all  I  remember  is 
blood  and  knives  and  wash-basins  and  Dr.  Magin 
nis  grunting  and  Miss  Stoddard  holding  mother's 
arm.  Dr.  Lawrence  was  holding  that  smelling 
thing  on  mother's  face.  The  smell  confused  my 
memory. 

My  arms  went  to  sleep  holding  the  lamp,  and  I 
just  looked  at  the  wall-paper  and  bit  my  tongue 
and  kept  my  balance,  although  I  was  swaying  all 
the  time.  After  a  long  while,  when  I  was  all  numb, 
everybody  straightened  up  and  the  lamp  started 
to  tip,  and  Miss  Stoddard  caught  it.  Dr.  Maginnis 
said,  "Lord!  I  forgot  all  about  that  kid!"  He  car- 

40 


SAMUEL 

ried  me  to  the  next  room  and  put  me  on  the  couch 
and  said, "  Son,  we  will  make  a  doctor  out  of  you." 

"Not  if  I  know  it,  you  won't  make  no  doctor  out 
of  me,"  I  said.  I  was  so  tired  I  could  hardly  keep 
from  laughing.  Just  then  there  was  a  commotion 
at  the  front  door  and  father  came  running  in  with 
the  absorbent  cotton. 

Dr.  Maginnis  hurried  away  to  another  case. 
When  a  doctor  gets  a  job,  he  calls  it  a  case. 

While  I  was  asleep,  Fred  Eldridge  had  the  coal  in 
his  cellar  moved  to  our  cellar,  so  the  house  was 
warm  when  I  woke  up. 

Somehow,  the  story  reached  Peter  Brooks,  and 
the  boys  had  more  respect  for  me  for  quite  a  while. 

Thanksgiving  gives  me  a  pain  in  the  neck. 


MALE  AND  FEMALE 

BEING  in  love  interferes  with  me  from  A  to  Z. 

It  started  at  a  party,  where  all  the  boys  and 
girls  are  supposed  to  have  a  good  time.  The  party 
was  a  surprise  party  on  Peter  Brooks  and  he  was 
not  to  know  anything  about  it.  I  asked  him  over 
to  my  house  for  the  evening  and  all  the  Protestants 
who  were  invited  went  into  Mrs.  Brooks's  parlor 
and  turned  down  the  lights.  Then  Mrs.  Brooks 
came  over  and  said  she  wanted  Peter  to  come  right 
home,  but  asked  me  to  go  too.  Of  course,  I  knew 
what  was  in  the  wind,  and  so  did  Peter,  but  Peter 
was  a  good  sport  and  did  n't  let  on. 

A  secret  is  common  knowledge  in  Cliftondale. 

Peter's  mother  likes  to  please  him  and  he  is  fond 
of  his  mother.  When  we  went  to  Peter's  house,  they 
turned  on  the  lights  and  the  party  was  in  full 
swing. 

Hazel  Knot,  the  girl  who  plays  the  cornet  so  flu 
ently,  was  there  and  it  seemed  all  right  to  have 
some  music,  which  is  customary  at  parties.  So 
they  asked  her  if  she  brought  her  cornet,  although 
any  darn  fool  could  see  it  up  on  top  of  the  piano. 

42 


SAMUEL 

This  is  called  etiquette. 

She  took  it  out  of  the  box  and  tried  it  to  see  if  it 
would  blow  all  right.  Then  she  took  out  her  music 
and  smiled  at  me  and  asked  me  if  I  would  play  her 
accompaniment.  This  made  Ethel  Goodman  mad 
as  a  March  hare,  and  it  was  so  intended,  for  Ethel 
had  made  remarks  about  Hazel. 

I  had  never  played  an  accompaniment  for  a  cor 
net,  but  I  knew  I  could  do  it,  and  was  n't  I  glad  when 
I  saw  the  music!  It  was  "Selections  from  Faust," 
very  much  like  a  similar  piece  for  piano  which  I 
have,  except  it  was  in  the  key  of  B  flat.  It  starts 
with  a  crash  and  some  chords,  and  I  said  to  my 
self,  "Now  I  will  show  these  girls  something."  Ha 
zel  put  the  cornet  in  front  of  her  face  and  nodded 
professionally,  and  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
that  first  note.  We  hit  it  right  on  the  dot,  and  then 
I  made  the  bass  go  "Boom-b-Boom,"  and  squared 
my  shoulders  like  the  pianist  did  at  the  church  con 
cert.  The  Soldiers'  Chorus  part  went  along  just 
like  marching,  and  then  came  a  part  called  "Flower 
Song,"  in  waltz  time,  which  is  not  in  my  piece  from 
"Faust."  I  had  sense  enough  to  know  it  was  differ 
ent  from  the  loud  part,  so  I  played  it  light  as  a 
feather.  I  was  right  with  Hazel  on  the  retards  and 

43 


INDELIBLE 

even  looked  at  the  ceiling  once  or  twice  for  effect. 
Hazel  keeps  perfect  time.  When  the  finale  came, 
loud  and  staccato,  I  nearly  jarred  the  cornet  box  off 
the  piano  and  brought  out  the  last  note  like  the 
crack  of  a  whip. 

When  we  finished,  we  were  so  excited  that  Ha 
zel  came  right  over  and  put  her  hand  on  my  shoul 
der  and  said,  "I  never  had  a  professional  who  could 
stay  with  me  as  well  as  that";  and  the  boys  and 
girls  clapped  and  clapped.  I  don't  know  what 
made  me  think  of  it,  but  I  wished  Bill  Milliken  had 
been  there.  He  would  have  enjoyed  it  so  much. 

For  an  encore,  Hazel  played  a  Song  without 
Words  which  rocked  gently  like  a  boat.  I  would 
like  to  see  the  man  who  can  get  words  on  a  cornet. 

Then  came  the  games.  We  played  Post  Office,  a 
kissing  game,  which  made  me  nervous  because  I 
had  never  kissed  a  girl.  We  all  had  numbers,  and 
the  first  time  Hazel  went  out,  she  called  my  num 
ber.  We  were  both  still  excited  from  the  music,  and 
if  it  had  been  any  one  else,  I  would  n't  have  kissed 
them,  but  Hazel  put  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
and  for  a  minute  I  felt  like  a  part  of  that  "Flower 
Song."  My  pulse  beat  in  waltz  time. 

When  the  party  was  over,  I  heard  Peter  ask 
44 


SAMUEL 

Hazel  if  he  might  go  home  with  her,  but  she  said 
she  was  sorry,  I  had  already  asked  her.  I  never  was 
sad  and  glad  so  close  together.  The  only  reason  I 
had  n't  asked  her  was  because  I  am  not  used  to  so 
ciety  and  did  n't  know  just  how  to  go  about  it.  Ha 
zel  has  presence  of  mind  as  well  as  talent.  I  walked 
home  with  her  and  we  took  a  long  time  about  it,  late 
as  it  was.  When  I  try  to  talk,  I  have  difficulty. 

I  kissed  her  good-night,  enjoying  it  even  more, 
out  in  the  open  air. 

Ever  since,  I  have  been  so  happy  I  could  not 
practice  more  than  a  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  until 
yesterday  afternoon,  when  Hazel  went  skating  with 
Peter.  Since  then  I  have  not  practiced  at  all. 


THE  TRUTH,  FOR  ONCE 

A  NEW  minister  has  come  and  gone  and  Mrs. 
Brooks  turned  Atheist  and  continues  to  be.  Here 
is  the  story  in  a  nutshell. 

Reverend  J.  Torrence  Williamson  was  called  to 
another  church  because  the  standing  committee 
thought  we  needed  a  change.  After  trying  several 
candidates,  Mr.  Howard  Talbot,  D.D.,  a  young  and 
amiable  man,  was  called  to  our  church  and  the 
deacons  voted  to  hire  him. 

I  liked  him  immensely  because  he  talked  sense 
and  was  good  to  everybody,  even  including  Catho 
lics  and  Irish.  The  women  and  deacons,  however, 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  One  of  his  first  ser 
mons  was  so  good  that  I  listened  all  the  way 
through.  Mr.  Talbot  said  our  forefathers  came  to 
America  to  worship  God  in  their  own  way  and  that 
every  church  and  creed  was  good  for  something  and 
we  should  be  tolerant  to  fellow  Christians  no  mat 
ter  what  church  they  attend.  We  should  be  broad- 
minded  with  respect  to  those  who  do  not  think  as 
we  do,  because  maybe  they  are  right,  who  knows? 

He  laughed  when  he  said  that,  but  most  of  the 
46 


SAMUEL 

women  and  deacons  smelled  a  rat  and  looked  very 
remonstrative.  After  church  only  a  few  of  the 
audience  seemed  glad  to  see  Mr.  Talbot  when  he 
shook  hands  at  the  door  and  asked  them  to  come 
again  as  usual. 

People  call  each  other  brother  and  sister  in 
church. 

I  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Talbot  and  said  I 
enjoyed  the  sermon,  which,  for  once,  was  the 
truth. 

While  we  were  eating  dinner,  I  asked  mother 
how  she  liked  the  sermon.  She  said  the  old-time 
gospel  was  the  only  way  to  salvation,  and  that  idol 
aters  should  not  be  encouraged  in  their  ways  of 
darkness,  and  she  never  thought  she  would  see  the 
day  when  our  church  should  degenerate  like  the 
Universalists.  I  asked  about  them,  and  she  said  all 
they  went  to  church  for  was  to  keep  up  appearances. 
That  is  the  reason  I  have  to  mow  the  lawn,  and 
why  father  has  to  be  quiet  with  the  newspapers  on 
Sunday  mornings. 

Tuesday  the  Social  Circle  met  at  our  house  to 
make  quilts  to  be  sold  for  missionaries  to  the  hea 
then  who  wear  no  clothes  in  distant  lands.  I  never 
heard  such  a  meeting,  except  once  before  when 

47 


INDELIBLE 

Mrs.  Taylor  had  a  divorce  because  her  husband 
ran  away  with  a  waitress  in  Boston  and  left  her 
to  shift  for  herself  as  best  she  could. 

Two  wrongs  do  not  make  a  right. 

It  was  agreed  at  the  meeting  that  something 
should  be  done  in  various  ways,  but  Mrs.  Ford,  a 
young  and  pretty  lady  who  does  n't  have  much  to 
say  ordinarily,  said  that  she,  for  one,  thought  Mr. 
Talbot  was  just  right  and  that  it  was  time  the 
members  of  our  church  realized  it.  Her  remarks 
were  like  the  seed  that  falleth  on  stony  ground,  and 
the  fowls  did  eat  and  seemed  to  bring  a  note  of  dis 
cord  into  the  meeting.  They  had  it  hot  and  heavy 
for  some  time,  and  Mrs.  Tomlinson  got  so  mad  she 
went  home  without  even  waiting  for  mother  to  ask 
her  to  come  again,  which  is  etiquette. 

Mr.  Talbot  has  formed  a  baseball  team  in  the 
Sunday  School  and  went  around  himself  to  collect 
money  for  baseball  suits.  Fred  Eldridge  gave 
twenty  dollars  for  the  suits,  although  I  have  heard 
him  say  that  he  does  n't  care  a  rap  for  foreign  mis 
sions.  The  boys  all  liked  Mr.  Talbot,  but  that 
did  n't  help  matters.  The  congregation  kept  get 
ting  smaller  and  younger  and  Mr.  Talbot  looked 
worried. 

48 


SAMUEL 

A  congregation  is  like  an  audience,  except  that 
they  come  for  duty  instead  of  pleasure. 

THE  last  straw  was  a  game  of  tennis  which  was  the 
talk  of  the  town.  The  weather  was  fine,  and  who 
should  go  to  the  tennis  court  but  Mr.  Talbot  in 
white  pants  and  the  young  Catholic  who  is  just  be 
ing  made  a  priest.  They  are  both  good  players  and 
it  was  nip  and  tuck.  Almost  every  member  of  our 
church  made  calls  that  evening,  and  Mr.  Talbot 
was  called  elsewhere  to  another  church  where  such 
goings-on  may  or  may  not  be  tolerated  for  all 
Deacon  Gregg  cares. 

I  was  so  mad  that  I  told  Mr.  Talbot  he  was  lucky 
to  get  out  of  this  town,  which,  for  once,  was  the 
truth.  Mr.  Talbot's  last  sermon  was  a  hot  one  about 
clearing  out  your  own  eye  before  thy  neighbor's. 

Now  the  minister's  name  is  Reverend  Ezekiel 
Babson,  who  could  n't  play  beanbag,  let  alone 
tennis. 

MRS.  BROOKS  left  the  church  without  a  letter  of 
recommendation  because  the  women  disapproved 
of  her  so  emphatically  behind  her  back. 

Peter  and  I,  and  others  in  our  room  who  were  so 
49 


INDELIBLE 

fortunate,  graduated  from  grammar  school  in  June, 
and  Mrs.  Brooks  set  up  a  soda-water  stand  at  Re 
vere  Beach  in  order  to  make  money  so  that  Peter 
could  have  a  high-school  education.  It  would  have 
gone  on  without  undue  comment  if  she  had  not 
kept  it  open  Sundays,  which  is  the  best  time  to 
make  money  at  Revere  Beach. 

The  members  of  the  congregation,  most  of  them, 
thought  it  better  that  the  boy  never  should  set  his 
foot  inside  high  school  rather  than  to  profit  by  such 
an  arrangement.  Mrs.  Brooks  told  several  of  them 
they  had  better  mind  their  own  business  and  they 
did  not  take  kindly  to  it,  so  she  up  and  left  the 
church  and  now  she  is  an  Atheist,  making  at  least 
two  in  Cliftondale. 


AMBITION 

BY  hook  or  crook,  I  am  going  to  the  Conserva 
tory.  That  will  be  better  than  wasting  time  at  high 
school  where  they  use  letters  in  their  arithmetic 
and  call  it  algebra. 

For  some  time,  I  have  been  dissatisfied  with 
Miss  Clafin  as  a  teacher,  because  I  can  play  scales 
and  pieces  better  than  she  can,  and  she  wastes  no 
end  of  time  trying  to  make  me  use  my  thumb  just 
as  if  it  were  like  my  other  fingers,  which,  you  can 
see,  is  impossible.  I  never  think  of  such  a  thing 
except  when  I  am  taking  a  lesson. 

She  had  a  recital  of  all  her  pupils  and  a  hun 
dred  people  were  there.  She  wanted  me  to  play 
the  "Ben  Hur  Chariot  Race,"  which  sounds  to  me 
like  a  motor-man  with  a  milk  team  stuck  on  the 
track.  She  even  printed  it  on  the  programme,  but 
I  kicked  over  the  traces  and  played  Chopin's 
Grande  Valse  de  Concert  in  E  flat,  causing  more 
applause  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  including 
Miss  Clafin  herself,  who  played  "Alice,  Where  Art 
Thou  Going,"  in  a  manner  which  left  considerable 
room  for  doubt. 

51 


INDELIBLE 

Take  it  all  and  all,  my  relations  with  Miss  Claim 
have  been  anything  but  pleasant  lately,  and  I  have 
helped  mother  so  much  since  her  hand  was  crippled 
that  she  could  not  very  well  refuse  me.  Of  course 
I  was  really  sorry  for  mother  and  anxious  to  help 
without  any  nigger  in  the  woodpile. 

Father  does  n't  see  what  good  the  Conservatory 
of  Music  is,  because  I  can  play  good  enough  for 
anybody  within  reason.  My  parents  do  not  under 
stand  what  music  means  and  I  am  just  beginning 
to  myself.  I  explained  to  father  the  fact  that  by 
going  to  the  Conservatory  I  will  have  much  more 
time  to  help  him  at  the  carpet-cleaning  shop,  which 
I  have  no  intention  of  doing  at  the  present  time. 

However,  it  is  settled  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
concerned  except  Miss  Clafin,  who  may  go  to  the 
dickens  and  welcome. 

She  says  I  am  ungrateful  to  her,  but  I  don't 
know  what  for. 


KILLING  TIME 

WHY  are  my  teeth  so  homely?  There  are  two 
longer  than  the  rest  and  they  stick  out  a  little.  The 
four  front  ones  are  too  small  and  have  saw-tooth 
edges.  When  I  smile,  I  have  to  keep  my  lips  tight 
together  so  my  teeth  will  not  show.  That  makes 
my  face  look  twisted. 

Miss  Stoddard  told  mother  that  my  teeth  should 
be  straightened  by  a  dentist,  but  mother  said  we 
might  as  well  wait  until  he  is  older  and  perhaps 
they  will  grow  straight  of  their  own  accord. 
Mother  does  not  believe  in  tinkering  with  boys,  as 
the  Good  Lord  does  everything  for  a  purpose. 

If  I  only  understood  religion,  I  could  find  an  ex 
cuse  for  doing  all  the  things  that  ought  not  to  be 
done,  and  vice  versa. 

My  pants  are  becoming  a  problem.  I  ought  to 
have  had  long  ones  sometime  ago,  but  I  am  so 
clumsy  and  so  much  longer-legged  than  the  other 
boys  in  my  room  that  mother  says  I  should  not  try 
to  look  as  old  as  my  father.  That  would  be  impos 
sible,  of  course.  My  feet  are  bigger  than  is  neces 
sary,  but  I  can  put  up  with  this,  because  if  they 

53 


INDELIBLE 

were  not,  probably  my  hands  would  not  be  big,  and 
I  need  big  hands  to  play  octaves. 

Everybody  says  I  look  like  father,  and  he  is  not 
the  worst  looking  man  in  town  when  he  is  not 
dressed  up  for  church  or  an  occasion.  Dressing  in 
collars  and  ties  does  not  come  natural  to  a  man  of 
my  father's  type. 

Collars  and  shirts  are  a  thorn  in  my  side.  My 
neck  is  not  very  thick,  but  my  arms  are  longer  than 
shirt-sleeves,  by  several  inches.  Either  my  collar  is 
so  big  for  me  the  boys  shoot  spitballs  inside,  or  my 
wrists  show  almost  halfway  up  to  my  elbows. 

Miss  Stoddard  had  a  long  talk  with  me  last  Sun 
day  afternoon  about  my  future.  Her  head  wiggled 
more  than  usual.  She  likes  the  idea  of  my  going  to 
the  Conservatory  next  fall,  but  she  does  not  like 
me  to  stop  being  educated.  She  made  me  promise 
to  read  several  of  her  books,  which  she  will  select 
in  proper  order.  I  do  not  think  reading  to  myself 
will  be  as  much  fun  as  having  Miss  Stoddard  read 
to  me. 

The  boys  call  Miss  Stoddard  an  old  maid,  and 
make  fun  of  me,  saying  that  she  is  my  girl.  The 
only  fight  I  ever  had  was  because  Frank  Wilson 
said  Miss  Stoddard  looked  like  a  turkey.  She  can- 

54 


SAMUEL 

not  help  her  looks,  and  she  has  more  sense  than  any 
body  in  Cliftondale.  I  said  I  would  make  him  look 
like  a  mushrat,  and  then  we  had  a  fight.  I  was 
afraid  at  first,  although  I  am  taller  than  Frank.  I 
could  n't  seem  to  do  much  because  my  legs  got 
mixed  up  and  I  am  so  slow-motioned,  but  I  got 
such  a  bang  in  the  nose  that  the  next  thing  I  knew, 
I  had  him  licked.  Then  his  big  brother  started 
to  lick  me,  and  Irving  Watson,  another  big  boy, 
pitched  into  him  and  told  him  to  take  some  one  his 
size.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  fights  all  over  Clif 
tondale  that  day. 

Watching  fights  is  contagious. 

I  AM  tired  most  of  the  time,  although  I  do  as  little 
as  possible,  I  do  not  enjoy  helping  father  get  hay 
for  Daisy  because  I  ache  most  of  the  time,  and 
working  hi  the  house  makes  me  restless  to  get  out. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  I  do  not  practice  or  play  the 
piano  much  because  when  I  sit  still  I  am  more  dis 
contented.  Hazel  is  away  for  the  summer  and 
Peter  works  down  at  Revere  Beach  with  his  mother 
at  the  soda-water  stand.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  the 
beach  on  Sunday  without  lying  about  it.  I  do  not 
like  to  go  into  the  bath-house  at  Revere  Beach  and 

55 


INDELIBLE 

undress  in  front  of  so  many  strange  boys.  My  ribs 
look  funny. 

Reading  makes  my  head  ache  and  the  words  get 
blurred  after  a  short  time.  The  first  book  Miss 
Stoddard  gave  me  to  read  was  about  Rip  Van  Win 
kle,  a  funny  name.  It  seems  that  Rip  went  into  the 
mountains  and  found  dwarfs  rolling  balls  which 
made  noise  like  thunder.  Rip  did  n't  think  much  of 
this,  so  he  went  to  sleep  for  twenty  years  and  did 
nothing  but  grow  whiskers.  When  he  woke  up,  the 
scenery  was  about  the  same,  but  the  people  were 
either  dead  or  twenty  years  their  senior.  Another 
story  was  about  William  Tell  who  was  a  crack  shot 
with  a  bow  and  arrow.  The  king  bet  William  that 
he  could  n't  shoot  an  apple  off  his  son's  head,  and 
lost  the  bet,  luckily  for  the  boy,  whom  his  father 
thought  a  great  deal  of.  The  king  would  have  lost 
either  way,  because  if  William  had  hit  the  boy,  he 
was  going  to  hit  the  king  with  another  arrow  and 
see  how  he  liked  it. 

GOING  swimming  is  not  much  fun  because  it  is  such 
a  long  walk,  and  the  water  is  dirty  at  high  tide  and 
at  low  tide  you  can't  swim.  Ever  since  I  saw  a  dead 
cat  in  the  swimming-hole,  I  have  felt  as  if  I  smelled 

56 


SAMUEL 

something  all  the  time  I  was  in  swimming,  and  that 
spoils  the  fun.  The  greenies  are  all  over  the  place 
and  bite  terribly.  I  don't  know  which  is  worse,  to 
be  bit  by  a  horsefly,  or  to  have  somebody  swat  you 
and  try  to  kill  it. 

It  is  about  horse  and  horse. 

I  NEVER  spent  a  summer  that  was  so  hard  to  kill 
time.  I  tried  shooting  squirrels  with  my  air  rifle, 
but  there  were  no  squirrels  in  the  woods  and  the 
brown-tail  moths  had  eaten  all  the  leaves  and  gave 
me  the  itch  to  boot.  Almost  all  the  leaves  in  Clif- 
tondale  have  been  eaten  by  the  brown-tail  moths, 
and  now  the  State  is  painting  a  circle  around  the 
trees  so  the  moths  can't  get  down  and  eat  the 
grass.  The  caterpillars  come  down  on  strings,  and 
I  don't  see  what  good  painting  the  trees  will  do. 
Miss  Stoddard's  trees  are  not  eaten  up,  but  she 
spends  half  her  time  spraying  them  with  white 
wash. 

s  PRETTY  soon  the  dog  days  will  be  here  when  the 
dogs  have  to  wear  muzzles  and  your  shirt  stays 
damp  and  sticky  all  night.  I  think  dog  days  are 
nonsense  because  dogs  are  no  crosser  than  people  in 

57 


INDELIBLE 

such  weather.  Anyway,  it  gives  the  cop  something 
to  do,  making  people  put  muzzles  on  their  dogs. 

Mother  has  been  tormenting  me  all  this  week 
about  cutting  the  grass.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
do  it,  but  I  have  no  desire  to.  Why  can't  they  let 
the  grass  grow  long  in  the  yard  and  make  hay  out 
of  it,  instead  of  going  all  over  Christendom  for  hay? 

I  WONDER  if  Hazel  will  be  back  from  her  vacation 
before  Peter  and  his  mother  close  up  the  soda- 
water  stand  at  Revere  Beach. 
If  so,  I  will  have  the  coast  clear. 

Miss  STODDARD  has  given  me  a  book  to  read 
entitled  "What  a  Boy  Ought  to  Know,"  which 
caused  a  controversy  between  mother  and  her. 
The  book  explains  about  sex  and  similar  matters. 
There  are  a  lot  of  things  about  it  that  I  do  not  un 
derstand.  For  instance,  there  is  a  part  which  says 
men  and  women  have  babies  by  contact  which  is 
pure  and  right  and  proper.  I  asked  Miss  Stoddard 
about  that,  and  she  said  I  would  find  out  when  I 
was  old  enough.  That  is  the  first  time  she  ever 
pulled  that  on  me,  but  I  suppose,  on  account  of  not 
being  married,  she  does  not  know. 

58 


SAMUEL 

Being  married  is  not  all  there  is  to  it,  because 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ford  and  others  have  no  children, 
and  Deacon  Gregg's  hired  girl  had  to  be  discharged 
because  she  had  a  baby  without  a  husband,  and  she 
was  not  married  at  all. 

The  book  tells  several  things  about  not  hugging 
and  kissing  girls  and  keeping  the  mind  and  body 
clean  so  that  when  you  are  married  you  can  look 
your  wife  in  the  face.  Mother  found  the  book  and 
got  real  mad  at  Miss  Stoddard  for  giving  it  to  me. 

"No  modest  woman  could  talk  about  such 
things,'*  mother  said. 

Miss  Stoddard  is  modest  to  a  fault.  She  never 
had  a  fellow  in  her  life;  that  is,  since  I  have  known 
her.  Of  course,  Miss  Stoddard  is  not  pretty  like 
Hazel. 

What  displeased  mother,  I  think,  was  the  fact 
that  she  told  me  previously  that  the  doctor 
brought  children,  but  what  do  I  care  about  that? 
The  Lord  knows  I  don't  want  any  children  around. 

Deacon  Gregg  moved  away  right  after  his  hired 
girl  had  the  baby  without  being  married,  and  there 
was  an  argument  in  the  church  as  to  whether  or 
not  they  should  give  his  wife  an  individual  letter 
of  recommendation.  Mother  was  discussing  it  with 

59 


INDELIBLE 

father,  and  he  said,  "You  'd  better  give  the  Deacon 
a  letter  of  recommendation."  That  made  mother 
huffy,  and  she  said  when  sin  came  into  our  midst, 
it  should  not  be  made  light  of. 

THERE  are  so  many  sinners,  it  seems  to  me  wA 
should  all  make  the  best  of  it,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

ETHEL  GOODMAN'S  mother  and  father  went  away 
the  other  night  and  she  asked  me  to  come  over  and 
see  her.  I  thought  I  might  as  well,  so  long  as  Hazel 
was  not  in  town  and  would  not  know  it.  Ethel  is 
not  homely,  but  she  is  quite  thin  and  not  bashful 
enough  to  suit  me.  She  sat  on  the  sofa  and  I  sat 
in  a  rocking-chair  and  we  had  hard  work  finding 
something  to  talk  about.  I  did  not  ask  her  to  play 
the  piano  because  she  makes  a  mess  of  it. 

After  a  while  she  asked  me  if  I  would  not  be 
more  comfortable  on  the  sofa,  so  we  sat  together 
and  held  hands,  and  it  started  to  get  dark,  but  she 
did  not  light  the  lamp.  I  put  my  arm>  around  her 
and  she  liked  it  and  got  as  close  as  she  could,  al 
though  it  was  hot  weather  and  I  perspired  quite  a 
little.  When  it  was  real  dark  we  began  kissing  each 
other.  We  stayed  there  quite  a  while,  and  I  hugged 

60 


SAMUEL 

her  as  best  I  could,  although  I  remembered  after 
wards  what  the  book  said  about  not  doing  it,  so  you 
could  look  your  wife  in  the  face. 

She  showed  me  the  French  kiss  where  you  stick 
your  tongue  out,  but  I  did  n't  like  it.  Ethel  was 
restless  as  could  be,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  burst 
out  crying.  She  said  nothing  was  the  matter,  and 
as  soon  as  she  quieted  down,  I  went  home,  as  it  was 
late. 

I  do  not  like  to  have  girls  hug  me  after  I  am 
tired  of  hugging  them.  I  wonder  if  all  girls  will  let 
you  kiss  them.  Hazel  and  Ethel  are  the  only  ones  I 
can  vouch  for. 

Most  girls  and  women  cry  at  the  drop  of  the  hat. 

THERE  is  one  thing  I  do  not  like  about  going  to  the 
Conservatory  of  Music.  Hazel  and  Peter  are  both 
going  to  high  school  and  that  may  be  my  Waterloo. 

FRED  ELDRIDGE  has  an  automobile  which  goes 
without  horses,  but  is  always  and  forever  getting 
stuck  somewhere.  When  it  gets  stuck  in  Clifton- 
dale,  mother  shuts  down  the  windows  so  I  will  not 
hear  Fred  swear,  but  I  knew  all  the  words  long  ago, 
so  she  might  as  well  save  herself  the  trouble, 

61 


INDELIBLE 

Sin  of  all  kinds  is  an  eyesore  to  mother. 

Fred's  automobile  scared  the  grocery  team  and 
they  ran  away,  catching  one  wheel  on  a  lamp-post 
and  capsizing  groceries  all  over  the  street.  The  cop 
stopped  the  horses  after  they  ran  into  the  post.  It 
was  a  lively  time  and  I  got  a  package  of  sweet  choc 
olate  out  of  it. 

I  AM  learning  to  smoke,  but  will  know  better  next 
time  than  to  start  in  on  cigars.  I  got  sick  at  first, 
but  I  have  stuck  to  it  and  now  am  quite  efficient. 

Yesterday,  father  and  I  went  to  Saugus  to  pick 
elderberries  so  he  can  make  a  barrel  of  wine  in  case 
of  sickness.  I  am  on  to  him  and  his  sickness. 
Father  let  me  try  some  of  last  year's  elderberry 
wine  that  was  left  in  the  bottom  of  the  barrel,  but 
it  smelled  like  vinegar  and  turned  my  stomach.  I 
do  not  think  I  shall  enjoy  drinking,  if  I  attempt  it. 
There  are  other  forms  of  sin  more  attractive. 

Mother  says,  "The  Devil  lurks  behind  the 
swinging  door,"  meaning  the  door  of  a  bar-room 
which  I  have  seen  going  by  on  a  street-car.  I  can 
always  tell  by  mother's  face  when  there  is  a  bar 
room  in  the  vicinity  of  the  street-car.  There  are  no 
bar-rooms  in  Clif  tondale  on  account  of  the  people 

62 


SAMUEL 

voting  "No  License"  for  thirty  years.  Just  before 
election,  some  of  the  women  parade  with  banners 
saying  "Down  with  Rum,"  "Vote  against  Liquor," 
and  "Protect  the  Child";  but  it  seems  to  me  they 
should  parade  in  Boston  and  Chelsea  where  there 
are  plenty  of  bar-rooms  to  be  reformed. 

A  parade  in  Cliftondale  goes  bumpety-bump  on 
account  of  the  mudholes  hi  Salem  Street. 

THERE  seems  to  be  a  marked  difference  of  opinion 
among  men  and  women  as  to  what  is  sin.  Accord 
ing  to  the  women,  practically  every  man  in  Clifton- 
dale  who  amounts  to  anything  will  go  to  hell  unless 
he  reforms  at  the  last  moment.  That  appears  to  be 
the  easiest  way  out,  but  would  not  work  in  case  of 
sudden  death,  which  seldom  occurs  in  this  town. 
Dying  by  inches  takes  several  years.  First  they 
give  up  work,  then  hope,  and  then  the  ghost. 

Smoking,  drinking,  and  card-playing  are  sins 
as  well  as  the  Ten  Commandments.  In  fact,  the 
women  think  that  fun  of  any  description  is  an 
abomination  to  the  Lord.  Men  appear  to  enjoy 
themselves  the  most,  but  they  have  to  keep  quiet 
and  not  give  each  other  away.  Women  give  each 
other  away  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

63 


INDELIBLE 

THERE  was  some  excitement  in  Cliftondale  last 
night,  the  first  this  summer,  unless  you  could  call  a 
runaway  excitement.  I  woke  up  in  the  night  and 
the  sky  was  orange  red,  so  I  got  up  quick.  There 
were  voices  outside  and  people  running,  and  just 
then  somebody  hollered  fire.  After  that,  I  smelled 
smoke.  I  woke  up  father  and  mother,  after  dress 
ing  hastily,  and  beat  it  out  the  door  before  mother 
could  say  no. 

The  schoolhouse  and  fire  station  was  on  fire  and 
the  wood  was  old  and  dry  as  a  bone.  I  never  saw 
anything  go  up  so  quickly  and  both  the  fire  engine 
and  the  hose  cart  were  burned  up.  It  is  a  good 
thing  they  did  not  keep  horses  there,  as  has  been 
suggested  time  and  time  again  in  town  meeting.  It 
is  also  a  shame  the  schoolhouse  burned  in  summer 
when  there  was  no  school. 

Now  there  is  going  to  be  a  special  town  meeting 
so  that  Fred  Eldridge  can  make  a  speech  about 
building  a  new  schoolhouse  and  fire  station,  which 
were  both  in  the  same  building. 

I  AM  glad  there  are  only  three  more  weeks  before  I 
go  to  the  Conservatory  of  Music. 


LORD  FAUNTLEROY 

PREVIOUS  to  going  to  the  Conservatory,  my  career 
and  self-respect  were  nearly  set  askew  by  a  pair  of 
sissie  pants.  Had  it  not  been  for  my  presence  of 
mind,  there  would  have  been  no  end  to  it. 

Mother  took  me  to  Boston  to  buy  a  suitable  suit 
and  other  appropriate  articles,  such  as  a  four-in- 
hand  necktie.  First  we  got  some  shoes  at  a  shoe- 
store,  where  they  had  slanting  stools  in  front  of  the 
seats  so  the  men  who  worked  there  could  get  a  good 
view  of  your  feet  which  you  put  in  their  lap. 
Mother  asked  for  the  largest  boy's  size,  but  the  men 
soon  found  that  the  front  half  of  my  foot  would  not 
go  into  it.  The  nearest  thing  to  fitting  turned  out 
to  be  size  8  AA,  which  cost  $2.75. 

I  guess  mother  thinks  I  will  eat  her  out  of  house 
and  home  buying  shoes. 

Then  we  went  to  a  big  department  store  where 
there  are  more  people  than  Clif tondale  can  boast  of, 
and  she  spent  a  half  an  hour  trying  to  buy  some 
percale  which  turned  out  to  be  nothing  but  cloth. 
I  felt  like  a  fool  standing  there  with  a  lot  of  women 
all  that  time.  She  did  n't  buy  the  percale  after  all, 

65 


INDELIBLE 

and  we  went  to  another  department  store  where 
the  performance  was  repeated,  to  my  dismay.  At 
the  third  store,  she  bought  some  which  looked  to  me 
just  like  the  percale  in  the  other  stores,  but  was  two 
cents  a  yard  cheaper.  I  would  have  given  her  the 
two  cents  to  save  all  that  wear  and  tear.  I  was 
afraid  that  if  it  took  so  long  to  buy  percale,  which 
is  only  cloth,  it  would  be  midnight  before  we  got  a 
suitable  suit. 

Then  we  went  up  an  elevator  with  great  diffi 
culty  on  account  of  the  large  number  of  women. 
The  ones  who  wanted  to  get  out  at  "Ladies'  Under 
wear  and  Knickknacks"  were  all  stuffed  into  the 
back  of  the  elevator,  of  course,  and  nearly  suffo 
cated  me  trying  to  get  out  at  the  first  stop.  It  was 
the  same  all  the  way  up  to  the  top,  where  the 
nigger  said  "  Boys'  and  Youths'  Clothing." 

I  hate  the  sound  of  that  word  "youth." 

We  stopped  in  front  of  a  counter  which  had  a 
placard  "Marked  Down,"  and  had  almost  decided 
after  some  time  to  take  a  suit  with  regular  long 
pants,  size  30,  when  the  clerk,  who  was  a  sissie 
with  polished  finger-tips  and  glasses,  said: 

"Madam,  perhaps  you  would  care  to  see  the 
knickerbockers. " 

66 


SAMUEL 

Mother  stopped  right  in  the  crucial  moment  and 
said,  "Thank  you,  I  would,"  and  we  went  to  an 
other  counter. 

Knickerbockers  are  sissie  pants  which  are  neither 
one  thing  nor  the  other,  and  which  have  buckles. 
The  coats  that  go  with  knickerbockers  have  apron 
strings  around  the  back  and  sides.  The  only  pair  I 
ever  saw  in  action  was  on  a  boy  named  Theodore, 
who  goes  to  private  school,  lucky  for  him. 

When  I  saw  what  was  up,  I  was  mad  enough  to 
bust  that  clerk  in  the  nose,  consequences  or  no  con 
sequences. 

"I  don't  want  those  trick  pants,"  I  said,  and 
mother  pinched  my  arm  and  told  me  to  hold  my 
tongue. 

I  had  visions  of  Peter  Brooks  and  the  gang 
bringing  me  forget-me-nots  to  put  in  my  button 
hole  and  I  knew  I  was  doomed  to  be  Lord  Fauntle- 
roy,  to  the  delight  of  my  playmates.  Sissie  clothes 
and  music  together  would  break  down  the  strong 
est  reputation. 

My  face  got  as  red  as  father's  winter  undershirt 
and  I  could  feel  the  heat  from  it. 

"I  won't  wear  anything  but  regular  pants,  so 
there  is  no  use  to  buy  them  bloomers." 

67 


INDELIBLE 

will  wear  what  is  set  before  you,"  mother 
laid. 

"Yes.  It's  all  right  for  you.  You  don't  have  to 
wear  them." 

Then  mother  got  red,  and  the  clerk  tried  not  to 
laugh,  and  I  knew  I  had  made  a  tactful  mistake 
in  referring  to  mother's  wearing  pants,  although  I 
know  by  observation  that  she  wears  pants  of  a  sort 
made  of  flannel. 

Women  in  the  prime  of  life  are  bashful  about 
their  clothes,  but  the  clothesline,  if  nothing  else, 
makes  it  plain  to  everybody. 

The  day  was  lost  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  and 
mother  paid  money  for  that  suit  of  bloomers  and 
the  monkey  coat. 

I  SPENT  the  next  day  planning  suicide  or  to  run 
away  and  join  the  navy,  but  I  could  not  do  that 
without  a  pair  of  long  pants,  so  there  I  was.  I 
looked  in  mother's  pocketbook,  but  there  was  only 
two  dollars  and  some  change.  I  was  just  about  at 
the  end  of  my  rope  when  food  for  thought  struck 
me.  From  that  time  forth,  I  developed  my  plan. 

WHEN  Sunday  came,  I  put  on  the  sissie  suit,  after 

68 


SAMUEL 

setting  the  clocks  back  so  we  would  get  in  late 
and  the  gang  would  n't  have  a  chance  at  me,  what 
there  is  left  of  them  around  town.  I  always  sit  on 
the  outside  of  our  pew,  and  there  are  two  nail- 
heads  which  stick  out  prominently,  as  I  have 
learned  while  waiting  for  the  end  of  sermons.  I 
sat  right  close  to  the  nails  and  hooked  the  side  of 
my  knickerbockers  good  and  solid  on  one  of  them 
while  I  fastened  the  other  into  the  coat  with  the 
apron  strings. 

When  the  Reverend  Ezekiel  Babson  said,  "Let 
us  join  in  prayer,"  I  stood  up  quick,  and  the  result 
was  beyond  description.  Mother  was  so  upset  she 
forgot  to  join  in  prayer  and  the  people  behind 
laughed,  hell  or  no  hell.  I  went  out  quick  at  the 
end  of  the  prayer,  holding  myself  together  as  best 
I  could,  and  by  the  time  mother  reached  home,  I 
had  removed  any  chance  of  a  relapse  with  some 
nails  in  the  barn. 

Mother  said  she  had  a  good  mind  not  to  let  me 
go  to  the  Conservatory,  and  father  said  that  new 
suits  don't  grow  on  trees,  and  for  God's  sake  next 
time  get  a  suit  for  wearing  apparel.  After  a  time 
the  ill  wind  blew  over,  and  now  I  have  some 
clothes  which  do  not  attract  attention,  only  it  is 

69 


INDELIBLE 

hard  to  get  used  to  long  pants  flapping  around 
my  legs. 

Tying  a  four-in-hand  necktie  is  more  trouble 
than  hitching  up  a  horse,  because  a  horse  does  not 
stand  in  front  of  a  mirror  and  you  can  see  what  you 
are  doing. 

THE  text  on  that  Sunday  was  "If  thine  eye  offend 
thee,  pluck  it  out,"  which  ought  to  hold  good  for 
knickerbockers  as  well. 


COINCIDENCE' 

I  WAS  safely  launched  into  the  Conservatory  of 
Music  day  before  yesterday  and  I  am  worried  as  a 
result  of  it. 

The  building  is  as  large  and  nearly  as  compli 
cated  as  a  department  store,  only  the  clerks  are 
girls  instead  of  sissies.  Mother  paid  my  tuition  at 
a  ticket  window. 

Right  in  front  of  the  main  door,  I  jumped  as  if 
something  big  were  moving  towards  me,  and  then 
I  saw  a  bronze  statue  of  a  homely  man  with  curly 
hair  and  a  frock  coat  who  did  n't  look  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  God  Almighty.  I  '11  bet  even  Dr.  Magin- 
nis  would  n't  have  dared  to  sass  him.  On  the  stone 
block  underneath  the  statue  it  said  "Beethoven." 
I  could  n't  look  away,  and  stood  there  like  a 
dummy  with  my  eyes  sticking  out,  and  mother 
went  away  and  left  me  without  noticing  it. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  it  dawned  on  me  that 
Beethoven  was  the  composer  who  wrote  "Minuet 
in  G"  and  "Farewell  to  the  Piano,"  both  of  which 
I  have  at  home.  The  Minuet  is  a  graceful  piece 
with  a  rhythm  a  little  slower  than  a  waltz,  and  the 

71 


INDELIBLE 

melody  sings  like  sun  on  the  sailboats.  This  puz 
zled  me  because  Beethoven's  statue  looked  as  if  he 
would  be  sailing  through  whirlpools  in  a  thunder 
storm,  rather  than  dancing  minuets  with  a  white 
wig  and  short  pants.  It  would  be  farewell  to  the 
piano  he  got  mad  with.  He  looks  hurt  and  full  of 
temper  which  he  nearly  bursts  trying  to  hold  in. 

"Come  along,  slow  poke,  and  get  registered," 
mother  said.  Getting  registered  meant  having  my 
name,  address,  birthplace,  age,  sex,  and  similar 
matters  written  on  a  card.  Mother  answered  the 
questions  and  the  clerk  wrote  them  down.  There 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do,  so  I  don't  see  what  I  had 
to  hurry  for.  Probably  mother  wanted  to  buy  an 
other  couple  of  yards  of  percale,  as  the  day  was 
young. 

YESTERDAY  I  went  in  to  start  my  lessons.  I 
showed  my  card  at  a  desk,  and  a  woman  asked  me 
a  lot  of  questions  about  my  previous  experience 
and  then  told  me  to  go  to  Room  "G"  on  the  right. 
I  knocked  on  Room  "G,"  and  a  voice  said, 
"Come  in."  Who  should  it  be  but  Mr.  Flynn,  the 
Catholic  which  Mr.  Chase,  the  music  supervisor, 
wanted  me  to  take  lessons  from  in  the  beginning. 

72 


SAMUEL 

"How  do  you  do,  young  man,"  he  said.  "Your 
face  looks  familiar.  Don't  you  live  in  Cliftondale? 
What  is  your  name?  " 

"Samuel  Graydon." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure.'*  Mr.  Flynn's  voice  was  good- 
natured.  "Let  me  see  your  card." 

The  piano  was  twice  as  big  as  ours,  and  shaped 
like  a  Sphinx,  which  is  an  Egyptian  Deity.  He 
opened  it  and  got  a  chair  for  me  and  asked  me  to 
sit  at  the  piano.  I  was  frightened  a  little  because 
the  piano  was  so  big,  and  I  was  wondering  what 
would  happen  if  mother  knew  they  had  Catholics 
for  teachers  in  the  Conservatory. 

"Play  something  for  me,"  he  said.  "Anything 
at  all." 

The  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head  was  the 
"Farewell  to  the  Piano,"  although,  come  to  think 
of  it,  that  is  a  funny  thing  to  start  taking  music 
lessons  with.  The  first  two  measures  are  "mf "  or 
medium. 

"Can  you  play  without  the  music?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  and  I  almost  said,  "  Yes, 
Father."  I  was  very  careful  with  the  first  few 
measures,  but  my  arms  seemed  to  be  quivering. 
The  next  two  measures  are  supposed  to  be  "p," 

73 


INDELIBLE 

tthich  means  soft.  When  I  stepped  on  the  soft 
pedal,  the  keyboard  jumped  and  I  was  so  rattled 
I  stopped  and  blushed. 

"Your  piano  at  home  is  not  a  grand,  is  it?"  he 
said,  not  at  all  put  out. 

"No,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"I  have  some  matters  to  attend  to,*'  Mr.  Flynn 
said.  "You  stay  here  alone  and  get  used  to  the 
piano  until  I  come  back."  Then  he  went. 

I  never  knew  a  piano  could  have  such  a  tone. 
The  bass  notes  were  deep  as  the  ocean  when  the 
sky  is  cloudy  and  the  treble  was  in  tune  all  the  way 
and  just  like  rows  of  pearls.  It  was  easy  to  play 
softly  as  well  as  loud.  I  played  scales  for  a  while, 
and  got  on  to  the  soft  pedal  that  moves  the  keys 
sidewise,  and  then  I  played  the  piece  I  had  started, 
with  no  trouble  at  all. 

When  I  finished,  Mr.  Flynn  was  standing  behind 
me,  looking  attentive. 

"Let  me  hear  you  play  a  study,"  and  he  put  up 
Czerny's  School  of  Velocity,  Book  I.  The  first 
study  is  mostly  for  the  right  hand  and  is  in  the  key 
of  C.  It  is  easy  to  read. 

"Now  the  next,"  he  said,  which  is  for  the  left 
hand. 

74 


SAMUEL 

"You  keep  perfect  time,"  he  said.  All  the  ex 
perts  seem  to  be  agreed  on  that.  Keeping  time  is 
the  easiest  part  of  music. 

"Try  the  scale  of  C,  both  hands,  three  octaves," 
he  said.  I  did,  and  as  I  played  it,  it  sounded  more 
uneven  to  me  than  ever  before. 

"Now  the  key  of  G."  Then  he  tried  all  the  ma 
jor  keys,  but  could  n't  stick  me. 

"The  fingering  is  correct  but  your  thumb  is  awk 
ward,"  he  said.  Then  he  sat  down  and  played  the 
scales  and  they  were  just  like  peas  in  a  pod. 

"You  like  music?"  he  asked,  and  I  nodded. 
"You  want  to  be  able  to  play  smoothly  no  matter 
how  difficult  it  may  be,  don't  you?  "  There  was  but 
one  thing  to  be  said. 

"Well,  you  have  a  few  bad  habits  we  must  cor 
rect  before  we  really  get  started.  Are  you  game  to 
work  for  six  weeks  on  the  scale  of  C?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Now  let  me  show  you."  He  told  me  how  to  use 
my  thumb  in  a  different  way  than  Miss  Clafin 
made  me,  and  he  cautioned  me  to  practice  slowly, 
raising  the  fingers  high,  but  keeping  the  thumb  al 
ways  on  the  keyboard.  He  said  the  fourth  finger 
had  a  tendency  to  come  down  too  soon  after  the 

75 


INDELIBLE 

little  finger,  and  darned  if  it  don't.  He  gave  me 
some  "Gymnastics,"  he  calls  them,  for  the  thumb. 
They  are  exercises  written  in  pencil. 

"Get  a  good  round  tone  and  listen  to  every  note 
you  play,"  he  said  in  parting. 

I  DON'T  know  what  to  make  of  it.  It  would  have 
been  more  sensible  if  I  had  gone  to  Mr.  Flynn  in 
the  first  place,  Catholic  or  no  Catholic,  as  Mr. 
Chase  recommended. 

The  scale  of  C  is  a  come-down  from  Grade  V 
pieces,  and  I  have  got  to  play  it  for  two  and  one 
half  hours  every  day  for  six  weeks,  I  will  do  well 
not  to  go  off  my  nut  listening  to  it. 

WHY  is  it  that  if  Mr.  Flynn  is  good  enough  to  teach 
in  the  Conservatory,  he  could  n't  make  a  living  in 
Cliftondale,  and  had  to  leave  because  all  the  pupils 
went  to  Miss  Clafin  who  does  n't  know  beans? 


THE  SCALE  OF  C 

ONLY  one  more  week  and  the  scale  of  C  will  be  over 
with.  Mother  was  not  at  all  pleased  on  account  of 
their  starting  me  all  over  again  at  the  Conserva 
tory.  When  I  told  her  I  had  a  bad  habit  with  my 
thumb,  she  said  it  was  new-fangled  notions. 

Parents  should  be  seen  and  not  heard  with  re 
gard  to  music. 

The  only  thing  to  break  the  monotony  has  been 
Hazel,  who  came  home  three  weeks  ago.  She  has 
a  wonderful  tan  from  swimming,  and  showed  me 
where  her  bathing-suit  was  marked  on  her  arms 
and  back.  There  are  certain  things  which  worry 
me,  however.  When  Hazel  kisses  me  now,  she  does 
it  the  way  Ethel  Goodman  did  last  summer.  I  have 
a  feeling  that  she  has  not  been  true  to  me,  and  that 
she  has  been  kissing  somebody  else  at  the  beach 
who  taught  her  that.  Sloppy  kisses  make  me  tired. 
Otherwise,  Hazel  is  the  same  old  girl. 

The  first  professional  work  I  ever  did  was  to 
play  an  accompaniment  for  Hazel  last  week  at  a 
Grand  Army  concert  in  Woburn  for  which  I  re 
ceived  $1.50.  Mrs.  Knot,  Hazel's  mother,  said  she 

77 


INDELIBLE 

is  glad  I  am  to  be  Hazel's  accompanist,  because 
now  she  won't  have  to  go  all  over  creation  with 
Hazel  in  order  to  come  home  with  her.  That  is  a 
very  sensible  view  to  take,  it  seems  to  me.  I  al 
most  let  the  cat  out  of  the  barn  at  the  concert  by 
playing  the  scale  of  C,  both  hands,  three  octaves. 
I  just  caught  myself  in  time.  That  would  be  a 
queer  thing  to  spring  at  a  concert,  but  I  would  just 
as  soon  do  that  as  play  Handel's  Largo  which  a  vio 
linist  did.  I  never  go  to  a  concert  without  hearing 
Handel's  Largo. 

Except  for  my  professional  work  with  Hazel,  I 
am  not  supposed  to  play  anything  except  what 
Mr.  Flynn  gives  me,  which,  the  Heavenly  Father 
knows,  is  little  enough. 

Mother  does  not  know  that  I  am  taking  lessons 
from  Mr.  Flynn.  If  she  did,  it  would  be  "good-bye, 
Conservatory,"  tuition  or  no  tuition.  Catholics, 
Protestants,  Jews,  and  all  other  kinds  of  Christians 
are  mixed  up  together  in  Boston.  There  is  no  other 
way  out  in  a  large  city  where  there  are  so  many 
people,  unless  you  wear  a  button  or  something,  and 
even  then  you  would  have  to  associate  more  or  less, 
and  why  not? 

Miss  Stoddard,  who  is  wise  to  the  whole  business, 
78 


SAMUEL 

said  we  all  are  brothers  and  sisters  and  should  live 
together  as  best  we  may.  Come  to  think  of  it,  Je 
sus  made  a  remark  something  like  that,  and  if  I  can 
find  it  in  the  Bible,  I  will  pull  it  on  mother  if  she 
starts  anything.  This  Bible  game  has  two  sides  to  it. 

Another  thing  that  worries  me  is  our  piano.  It  is 
so  different  from  the  piano  in  the  Conservatory. 
Some  of  the  notes  go  down  harder  than  others,  and 
there  is  no  tone  to  it.  Mother  says  I  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  the  blessings  I  have.  How  can  I  play 
evenly  if  the  notes  on  the  piano  stick,  I  would  like 
to  know? 

What  is  the  sense  of  being  thankful  for  a  blessing 
that  is  no  earthly  good? 

I  HAVE  graduated  from  the  scale  of  C  at  last,  and 
now  have  G  and  D,  which  are  just  the  same  except 
for  one  and  two  sharps,  respectively.  It  is  not  so 
monotonous  now  because  I  have  two  of  Czerny's 
studies.  I  could  not  stand  it  if  Mr.  Flynn  did  not 
play  two  or  three  pieces  for  me  at  the  end  of  every 
lesson.  I  remember  them  all  through  the  week.  We 
are  building  slowly  but  surely,  Mr.  Flynn  says, 
and  if  he  did  n't  have  great  hopes  for  me,  he  would 
not  be  so  fussy. 

79 


INDELIBLE 

I  hope  his  hopes  are  not  like  the  pestilence  that 
walketh  at  noonday. 

THE  piano  question  has  found  a  ray  of  sunshine. 
The  church  is  buying  a  new  one  for  the  Sunday 
School,  which  is  downstairs.  They  asked  me  to 
play  hymns  for  Sunday  School  and  I  said  I  would 
if  I  could  practice  on  the  new  piano.  Deacon 
Palmer,  the  superintendent,  said  he  did  n't  see  any 
objection  and  I  did  n't  argue  any  further  with  him. 
So,  in  a  couple  of  weeks  I  will  have  a  decent  piano 
for  practicing,  and  I  don't  lose  anything,  because 
I  have  to  go  to  Sunday  School,  anyway,  to  keep 
peace  in  the  family. 

The  way  things  turned  out,  it  is  a  good  thing  I 
was  not  thankful  for  the  piano  at  home. 

Father  asked  me  why  I  could  n't  learn  the  fiddle 
also  while  I  am  at  the  Conservatory,  so  I  can  play 
"  The  Sailor's  Hornpipe,"  which  is  father's  favor 
ite  piece.  I  guess  he  thinks  learning  instruments 
is  as  easy  as  cleaning  carpets,  where,  of  course,  it 
don't  make  much  difference  what  kind  of  a  carpet 
it  is. 

Nero  started  to  learn  the  fiddle  long  before  Rome 
caught  fire, 

80 


SAMUEL 

PETER  BROOKS  has  started  to  shave,  but  there  is  no 
use  of  my  following  suit  because  I  have  n't  any 
whiskers  to  speak  of  and  the  ones  I  have  are  not 
visible. 

Peter  likes  going  to  high  school,  all  except  les 
sons  and  some  of  the  teachers,  which  he  says  are  a 
nuisance. 

IT  was  so  cold  to-day  that  we  started  the  furnace 
fire,  and  I  am  going  to  tend  it  this  year,  instead  of 
father.  I  do  not  mind  it,  only  the  ash-sifter  makes 
a  squeak  that  sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  It  sounds 
worse  than  Jack  Foley  when  he  plays  way  up 
on  the  neck  of  his  fiddle.  Jack  is  playing  with 
an  orchestra  which  plays  for  dances.  I  never  play 
ragtime,  except  by  ear,  and  once  in  a  while  at  parties 
when  they  want  to  sing.  There  is  nothing  to  it,  al 
though  I  do  not  mind  it  the  first  two  or  three  times. 
The  only  good  violin  teacher  in  this  vicinity  is  a 
Protestant,  so  Jack  Foley  has  not  learned  very 
well. 

HAZEL  wants  me  to  learn  to  dance  because  at  lots  of 
affairs  where  I  play  her  accompaniments,  there  is 
dancing  afterwards. 

81 


INDELIBLE 

An  affair  differs  from  an  occasion  on  account  of 
the  music  and  often  dancing  as  well. 

I  think  I  shall  have  trouble  because  I  am  not 
what  you  might  call  graceful  on  account  of  my  ex 
tra  long  legs  and  feet.  Of  course,  I  don't  say  any 
thing  about  dancing  to  mother.  She  thinks  dancing 
is  like  rum,  cards,  intemperance,  and  similar  sins. 
All  the  Christians  do  not  agree  on  this  point,  be 
cause  the  Episcopalians  dance  right  in  the  building 
with  their  church. 

Keeping  from  going  to  hell  is  more  trouble  than 
going,  if  there  is  one.  They  are  talking  now  about 
hell  being  on  earth.  Father  says  that  can't  be  true, 
because  if  it  was,  it  would  be  next  door  to  Clifton- 
dale,  and  mother  told  him  that  the  scoffers  would 
repent  when  it  was  too  late  and  there  would  be 
weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  as  the  Good  Book 
says. 

•  Every  time  I  mention  hell  to  Miss  Stoddard,  she 
laughs,  although  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  deli 
cate  subject  for  an  Atheist.  If  she  is  game  to  take  a 
chance,  why  should  n't  I  be  ? 

If  there  is  n't  a  hell,  what  about  heaven?  I  asked 
mother  if  heaven  is  on  earth,  too,  and  she  said, 
"Not  so  long  as  there  is  children." 

82 


SAMUEL 

Pretty  good  for  her.    She  don't  relax  like  that 
very  often. 

WELL,  so  long.    I  must  play  the  scale  of  A-natural 
a  couple  of  thousand  times. 


PART  II:  LENA 


PAKT  II:  LENA 

STEERAGE 

LITTLE  LENA  BOROFSKY'S  eyes  glow  fiercely  in  the 
dense  vapor  which  fills  the  steerage  from  bottom 
to  top.  Around  her  is  misery,  limp  and  crowded. 
Sick  faces  in  shawls  and  sick  children  in  heaps.  Tar 
smell,  grease,  breaths  of  garlic,  eight  days  stale, 
stench  of  unrelieved  seasickness. 

Who  ever  heard  of  lime-water  hi  the  steerage? 

Mischa  Borofsky,  Lena's  father,  sits  with  his 
skull-capped  head  drooped  on  his  chest,  his  cap 
showing  black  like  a  target.  His  streaked  and 
stringy  beard  reeks  with  bits  of  food.  Eight  chok 
ing  days  hi  the  steerage. 

The  little  girl's  stomach  pit  poises  for  a  trem 
bling,  long-drawn  swell.  The  wave-tossed  liner 
starts  to  climb.  Rising,  slowly  rising.  Shoulders 
pull  up,  insides  haul  down.  Still  for  a  horrid  mo 
ment.  Then  the  dizzy,  slow  descent.  Going  down, 
dawn,  oh,  so  slowly.  Thud!  —  on  the  bottom  of  the 
boat. 

Over  and  over  again.  Not  a  word  in  the  steeragci 
87 


INDELIBLE 

Misery,  huddled  on  vile  floors,  wrapped  in  colored 
shawls.  Eyes  closed,  but  not  asleep.  Misery  only 
dozes  and  the  lids  flutter  protestingly. 

Lena  has  been  ill,  but  fiercely  ill.  She  does  not 
take  things  calmly.  Each  maddening  swell  is 
meant  for  her.  Each  foot  that  tramps  her  gets  a 
kick,  even  her  heavy-handed  father.  No  squatting 
for  her.  She  either  stands  or  falls.  Eight  long  days 
of  this,  and  each  misfortune  kindles  those  glowing 
eyes. 

Her  eight  years  in  a  peasant  hut,  her  mother's 
weary  death,  are  blurred  and  jumbled  by  these  last 
eight  days. 

Which  does  your  memory  hold,  years  or  days? 

She  is  dressed  in  a  shabby,  one-piece  garment, 
loose-fitting  stockings  and  rough-sewn  shoes. 
When  her  glowing  eyes  are  turned,  two  thick  braids 
of  raven  hair  send  out  pure  white  spots  of  high 
light.  Her  body  is  thick  and  sturdy,  but  her  hands, 
beneath  the  grime,  are  nicely  shapen,  with  sensi 
tive,  tapering  fingers.  A  body  for  a  peasant  girl, 
eyes  for  a  Fury,  hair  for  a  Madonna,  hands  for  an 
artist. 

How  do  these  things  happen? 

Lena  is  rebellious.  Her  rage  has  beaten  down 
88 


LENA 

the  quivering  nausea.  She  will  be  sick  no  more. 
Her  temples  ache.  She  hates  to  breathe.  Her  sense 
of  smell  is  straining.  No  growths  or  twists  in 
Lena's  nose.  It  is  fine  and  straight  and  perfect. 

She  sees  a  ladder  leading  to  the  hatchway,  which 
is  open.  She  starts  to  climb,  clinging  as  the  boat 
lurches.  Her  dirty,  black-rimmed  fingers  reach  the 
top.  Her  raven  head  drinks  in  the  open  air.  A 
steward  sees  and  shoves  her  back  with  a  gentle 
foot. 

Ouch!  White,  flashing,  perfect  little  teeth  prick 
into  his  ankle  and  tight  clutching  hands  grab  his 
trouser  leg.  A  shake,  and  Lena  half  slides  down  the 
ladder.  Her  father,  roused  by  the  commotion, 
knocks  her  down  with  a  casual  cuff.  Lena  glow 
ers  at  the  steward,  who  is  laughing  down  the 
hatchway.  She  is  pledging  lifelong,  silent  hate. 

Lena  is  a  pretty  name. 


PITTS  STREET 

PROBABLY  you  have  never  been  on  Pitts  Street. 

Shrill  children,  wobbly  cobblestones,  the  scent  of 
sour  ash-cans  preceded  by  a  cloud  of  buzzing  flies. 
A  sweet-faced  young  Italian  woman,  babe  in  one 
arm,  stoops  to  quiet  a  child  at  her  feet,  and  a  perfect 
breast  hangs  just  inside  the  loosened  waist.  Two 
little  Yiddies  playing  ball.  One  misses  and  the  ball 
tips  Giovanni's  paint-can.  He  tips  it  back,  as  if  en 
joying  a  frolic,  Giovanni  is  painting  his  little  shop 
with  dull  green.  A  few  yellow  fronts,  a  dull  ma 
roon,  and  the  brick-red  livery  stable  break  the 
rows  of  drab,  dilapidated,  wooden  buildings. 

How  good  a  livery  stable  smells  on  Pitts  Street! 

Mother  Shannon,  who  peddles  cheap,  flat  bot 
tled  beer  and  sick  girls  on  their  very  last  legs,  glares 
thickly  through  a  slit  in  half-closed  shutters,  look 
ing  for  sailors.  Sound  of  her  cane  as  she  hobbles  on 
the  wood  floor  inside. 

Rattle  of  iron-shod  wheels  over  cobbles.  Splash 
from  mud  puddles  as  two  teams  pass  narrowly  by 
the  livery  stable.  Narrow  stairways  crowded  with 
shawled  and  ear-ringed  women,  out  of  shape. 

90 


LENA 

There  is  swarming  life  on  Pitts  Street.  Turn  up 
your  nose,  stuff  up  your  ears,  brush  your  trouser 
leg  where  the  puddle  splashed,  but  there  are  faces 
to  remember,  and  that  young  woman's  breast  was 
fresh  and  clean. 

OLD  MISCHA  and  Lena,  just  off  the  boat,  walk  hand 
in  hand  down  Pitts  Street.  The  old  man  looks  re 
signedly  blank,  hands  in  opposite  sleeves,  Russian 
cap  marking  him  in  the  motley,  sidewalk  throng. 
Lena's  black  eyes  are  devouring  things.  The  up 
stairs  windows,  the  heavy  rattling  teams,  the  pic 
tures  in  the  tattoo  expert's  grewsome  shop.  She 
stumbles  down  a  cross-alley  curb,  but  recovers 
with  eyes  still  raised.  In  her  hand  is  a  bag  of  candy, 
placed  there  by  a  steward,  for  which  he  received  a 
hard  look. 

Mischa  stops  still,  raises  his  head  and  gravely 
sweeps  the  doorways  up  and  down  the  street,  his 
face  perfectly  blank.  Coming  toward  him,  an  un 
mistakably  Jewish  figure.  Long  coat,  flat  derby 
tipped  to  thirty  degrees  back,  broad  forehead, 
hands  hanging  on  arms  which  do  not  swing  as  he 
walks,  his  toes  turned  out  and  sharp  knees  bent. 
He  spies  Mischa,  sees  he  is  a  "new  bigginer,"  and 

91 


INDELIBLE 

stops  with  an  avalanche  of  gutturals.  Mischa 
joins  in,  turn  and  turn  about  being  strictly  ob 
served.  The  newcomer  points  to  a  near-by  door 
way  and  shuffles  on. 

Into  a  narrow,  crowded  stairway  go  Mischa  and 
Lena.  The  year  is  nineteen  hundred  and  three. 

How  do  immigrants  get  started? 

If  a  man  of  fifty  with  a  beautiful  hungry  daugh 
ter  of  eight,  motherless,  lands  in  a  strange  coun 
try,  no  relatives,  no  knowledge  of  language,  scant 
funds,  how  would  you  advise  him  to  proceed? 

MISCHA  appeared  on  the  streets  a  few  weeks  later 
with  an  old,  spavined  horse,  a  rickety  wagon,  and 
assorted  bits  of  junk  and  brown  bags  of  rags  and 
paper.  Perched  on  the  seat,  with  broad  flat  derby, 
flapping  coat,  and  straggling  whiskers,  he  looked 
his  part. 

A  real,  living  Jew  of  the  old  school  is  the  only 
national  type  which  may  be  recognized  by  its  rep 
resentation  on  the  vaudeville  stage.  The  come 
dians  do  not  overdo  it.  It  is  not  in  their  power. 

Mischa  had  native  patience  and  an  inborn  pas 
sion  for  trade.  He  lacked  a  vocabulary,  but  made 

92 


LENA 

up  for  this  deficiency  with  odd-jerked  shrugs  and 
shoulder  lifts  and  eloquent  palms  and  thumbs.  At 
regular  intervals,  he  cried  "  R-a-e-e-e-e-cks  "  like  a 
dismal  goat. 

Lena  soaked  up  knowledge  as  the  angry  sun 
draws  moisture  from  the  sticky  August  heat.  The 
jargon  of  Pitts  Street,  adult  Italian  dialect,  back- 
porch  Yiddish,  the  slang-slapped  English  of  the 
kids,  the  price  of  dry  fish  and  hard  dark  bread. 
She  asked  not  for  information,  she  demanded  it, 
and  kept  her  black  eyes  fastened  on  her  informant 
in  a  way  which  strangled  incipient  deception, 

The  old  man  did  the  cooking.  The  washing  was 
not  done.  The  old  man  peddled  junk  every  day 
while  the  daughter  ran  wild  on  Pitts  Street. 

PITTS  STREET  is  mostly  Italian,  with  possibly  ten 
per  cent  of  Jews.  In  the  evening,  it  changes  a  bit. 
Fruit-peddlers  and  organ-grinders  return,  over 
flowing  the  doorway  crowds  and  filling  up  the  win 
dows.  Laborers  light  up  acrid  pipes  and  play  "  Uno- 
duo."  Women  sort  out  their  broods  and  keep  them 
close  as  possible.  They  never  say  "Hush"  to  a 
child  out  of  doors.  From  nooks  and  corners  float 
the  lilting  gay  waltz  melodies  of  Italia,  wheezed 

93 


INDELIBLE 

from  accordions.  The  faulty  chromatics  of  a 
hurdy-gurdy  rise  from  the  curb.  From  open  first- 
floor  windows  come  the  sound  of  violins  and 
snatches  of  tenor  song  from  upstairs. 

The  faintest  breath  of  .music,  even  the  whine  of 
a  mouth-organ,  electrifies  Lena.  The  delicate  nos 
trils  contract,  the  hands  stop  still  in  attitudes  of 
natural  grace,  the  black  eyes  soften.  If  the  sound 
is  of  a  violin,  the  black  eyes  grow  moist. 

One  stifling  evening,  a  few  weeks  after  his  rag 
business  was  established,  Old  Mischa  was  greeted 
by  his  little  daughter. 

"Papa,  I  got  to  play  scripka  (violin)." 

Mischa  stopped,  looked  stolidly  at  Lena,  and 
rocked  his  head  from  side  to  side,  clucking  each 
tune  with  his  tongue. 

RUMOR  of  the  approaching  school  term  reached 
Lena  through  the  chatter  of  the  children.  She 
transmitted  scraps  of  information  to  her  father. 
The  Italian-English  of  the  landlord,  the  English- 
Yiddish  of  a  neighbor  Jew,  and  countless  cal- 
isthenic  gestures,  cleared  the  puzzling  situation. 

Does  n't  it  strike  you  rather  funny  to  call  a 
North-End  tenement  keeper  a  "landlord"? 

94 


LENA 

On  the  opening  day,  Lena,  shabby  but  scrubbed 
for  the  occasion  by  Giovanni's  swarthy  wife,  fol 
lowed  the  noisy  throng  to  the  schoolhouse  and 
found  herself  crammed  into  a  desk  far  too  small  for 
her.  She  tore  through  primary  lessons  like  a  fright 
ened  alley  cat,  covered  by  a  swift-thrown  pile  of 
dusty  papers.  In  a  short  span  of  months,  she  be 
came  her  father's  interpreter,  scribe,  and  adviser. 
There  are  odd  companionships  in  the  complicated 
North-End  bustle. 

Lena's  shabby  clothes  were  mended  and  new 
ones  made  by  Mrs.  Giovanni.  It  is  not  much 
harder  to  sew  for  eight  than  for  seven,  Mary  pity 
women!  Lena's  thick  braids  were  tied  with  colored 
ribbons  like  the  rest.  A  few  at  first  made  cruel 
childish  fun  at  her  expense  and  to  their  discomfi 
ture. 


"R-A-E-E-E-E-CKS  " 

LENA  has  reached  a  grade  where  desks  more  nearly 
fit. 

Miss  Hardwick,  thirty-five,  Brookline,  quite 
new  to  the  North  End,  leaves  the  room  unguarded 
a  moment.  Gusts  of  giggles,  clouds  of  whispers, 
fusillades  of  flying  spitballs,  and  playful,  half-re 
pressed  disorder,  as  the  door  closes.  Suddenly, 
from  Boris  Klein,  three  desks  removed,  a  torment 
ing,  long-drawn 

"R-a-e-e-e-e-cks!" 

High  green  hisses  like  a  wildcat  falling  from  a 
tree.  Black  eyes  blaze.  Lena's  face  turns  white 
hot.  Swift  hands  feel  for  something.  The  inkwell! 
Straight  at  Boris's  head  it  flies,  splashing  a  shower 
of  drops  and  blots  on  children,  desks,  and  clothing. 

A  swift,  inhaled  hush.  The  sharp  voice  of  Miss 
Hardwick. 

"CHILDREN!" 

No  terror  in  Lena,  deaf  with  rage.  She  reaches 
Boris,  over  ink-splashed  desks  and  pupils.  The 
timid  start  to  cry,  the  big  ones  start  to  grin.  Miss 
Hardwick,  with  swift  steps,  pries  the  frenzied  girl 

96 


LENA 

from  Boris's  hair.  Blood  trickles  down  his  face, 
scratched  deep  on  either  cheek.  He  blubbers,  Lena 
standing  tense,  fretting  at  restraining  hands,  de 
termined  to  reach  him  again. 

Miss  Hardwick  sees  the  ink  splashes  and  gasps. 
Ruined  clothes  are  held  up  for  inspection.  The 
head  master  is  summoned.  Not  a  word  from  Lena, 
eyes  still  blazing.  Explanations  are  volunteered 
from  every  side.  The  teacher  threatens,  shakes. 
The  culprit  will  not  speak  and  her  black  eyes  follow 
cringing  Boris. 

After  school,  the  third  degree  in  the  stern  head 
master's  office.  Not  a  word.  Miss  Hardwick,  in 
desperation,  half  drags  Lena  home,  and  finds  Old 
Mischa  mending  a  tattered  old  coat.  A  swift  at 
tempt  to  tell  the  tale,  but  Mischa's  face  is  wide  and 
blank.  His  needle  has  remained  poised  far  to  one 
side.  The  teacher  talks,  gestures,  shouts,  her  pa 
tience  gone,  and  the  old  man  stands  up  slowly.  He 
nods  and  takes  his  yardstick.  He  thinks  he  grasps 
the  idea.  Lena  has  misbehaved. 

His  large  hand  grasps  her  shoulder.  With  a  rip, 
her  dress,  which  buttons  behind,  is  peeled  partly 
away.  Swish  descends  the  yardstick  on  the  child's 
back.  Again,  again.  Lena  kicks  and  struggles,  but 

97 


INDELIBLE 

is  silent  as  a  stone,  as  blows  are  rained  on  her 
wriggling  back. 

Miss  Hardwick  is  one  whom  violence  turns  faint. 
Her  head  spins.  She  tries  desperately  to  intercede. 
She  clenches  her  hands,  afraid  of  what  she  started. 
Old  Mischa  misunderstands.  He  thinks  she  is  re 
lating  graver  misdemeanors  and  lays  on  harder. 
He  grasps  Lena  more  firmly,  and  swish,  swish,  de 
scends  the  yardstick.  Welts  appear  faintly  on  the 
soft  young  skin. 

The  teacher  flees  in  a  panic  down  the  stairway, 
tripping  over  a  throng  of  peeping  youngsters  exult 
ing  over  the  "vipping."  She  tries  to  find  a  police 
man,  an  American,  anybody  to  save  that  poor 
child's  life.  She  accosts  Pietro,  banana  merchant, 
and  he  tries  to  find  the  fruit  she  wants.  She  hurries 
back  and  forth  on  the  crowded  street,  faint  and  sick 
and  apprehensive.  She  is  drawn  back  up  that  ter 
rible  stairway  by  a  force,  her  mind  blindly  try 
ing  to  shut  out  blood-curdling  pictures,  her  heart 
hammering. 

The  Borofsky  door  is  open.  Mischa  is  seated  as 
he  was  before  the  fray,  mending  the  tattered  coat, 
needle  poised  far  to  the  right.  Lena  peers  through 
the  dirty  window,  face  still  tear-stained,  black  eyes 

98 


LENA 

burning  holes  into  the  crowded  street  below,  trying 
to  pick  out  a  face  that  laughed  at  her  humiliation 
through  the  doorway.  Pitts  Street  has  resumed  its 
continual,  restless  swarming.  Mischa's  stolid  face 
has  not  changed  during  the  entire  incident. 

The  shaken  teacher  stops.  She  hesitates.  What 
should  she  do?  Half  dazed,  she  decides  the  thing  to 
do  is  to  go  home  and  go  to  bed.  It  is.  She  does. 

MISCHA  has  performed  a  routine  Russian  duty  in 
the  only  manner  known  to  him.  Lena  had  done 
wrong.  She  had  been  punished.  The  incident  was 
closed. 

The  child  bore  no  resentment.  The  pain  was 
temporary  and  was  dulled  by  her  rage.  The  sharp 
hurts  had  subsided. 

Her  father  had  not  been  angry,  to  the  extent  of 
losing  his  temper.  He  had  acted  the  part  of  a  du 
tiful  father  in  correcting  his  child.  If  he  wanted 
his  spavined  horse  to  quicken  his  lagging  steps, 
he  struck  it  moderately  with  a  stick.  If  his  child 
transgressed,  he  did  the  same,  calmly,  the  dura 
tion  and  severity  graded  to  fit  the  offense.  In  the 
old  country,  if  a  peasant  stole  a  hen,  he  was 
beaten  with  sticks,  and  the  beating  began  instead 

99 


INDELIBLE 

of  ending  when  the  welts  under  the  skin  began  to 
show. 

It  never  entered  Lena's  mind  to  question  her 
father's  right  to  beat  her.  Next  day,  she  appeared 
in  class  as  usual,  her  back  a  trifle  sore.  White  skin 
is  easily  bruised.  A  physician  made  a  report  to  the 
school  committee.  On  motion  of  the  member  who 
spent  his  youth  in  Volna,  no  action  was  taken. 

But  Boris  Klein  slunk  fearfully  on  devious  routes 
to  and  from  school  for  many  days  and  Lena's 
father  was  not  mimicked  a  second  time. 


SAD  EYES,  SCRIPKA,  AND  BLACK  BRAIDS 

A  HORSE  and  man,  daily  associated,  borrow  char 
acteristics  of  one  another.  Mischa's  horse  had  no 
name.  Sad  Eyes  will  do. 

Sad  Eyes  was  a  Jewish  horse.  He  had  a  large, 
odd-shaped  head  with  bulging  proboscis.  His  ears 
were  broad,  large,  and  limp,  and  flapped  in  jerky 
rhythm  when  his  legs  moved.  His  knees  were  prom 
inent  and  his  gait  eccentric.  He  was  lean,  but  not 
thin.  His  worn -down  hoofs  turned  out  in  the  or 
thodox  Jewish  walk.  His  life  was  a  dull  routine.  A 
half-hour  after  Mischa  arose,  Sad  Eyes  was  fed  and 
hitched  to  a  rickety  wagon.  All  day  he  minded  his 
own  business.  When  there  was  a  water  ing- trough, 
he  took  the  initiative  and  made  for  it.  Mischa  sat 
like  a  huge  black  bird,  motionless,  until  Sad  Eyes 
drank  his  fill.  Then  he  gave  one  whack  with  the 
stick.  Two  whacks  meant  three  stiff-legged  hops 
and  a  jerky  half  trot  for  thirty  yards.  Two  whacks 
came  late  in  the  day,  as  a  rule. 

Man  and  horse  plodded  on  together,  day  by  day, 
and  not  a  single  word  was  passed.  Their  eyes  were 
half  closed  until  a  bargain  presented  itself.  Then 

101 


INDELIBLE 

they  were  wide  open,  Sad  Eyes  looking  back  at 
tentively.  Mischa  blatted  "R-a-e-e-e-e-cks"  about 
as  often  as  Sad  Eyes  switched  his  moth-eaten  tail. 
Fatalists.  Stoics.  Partners. 

What  took  place  behind  the  sad  eyes  and  under 
the  ridiculous  flat  derby?  How  far  in  did  the  gibes 
of  the  young  and  the  scorn  of  the  old  penetrate? 

Your  guess  is  as  good  as  anybody's. 

Lena  did  not  mind  her  poverty  because  she 
did  not  know  exactly  what  poverty  meant.  They 
lived  in  one  room,  twelve  by  twelve,  stuffy  and 
dirty  and  squalid.  A  cot,  a  smaller  cot,  a  worn 
wooden  table,  two  scarred  wooden  chairs,  a  small 
cook-stove  with  long  elbows  of  ill-matched  stove 
pipe,  half  rusted,  half  black,  a  dull,  faded  picture 
of  Martha  Washington,  salvaged  by  Lena  from  a 
junk  pile,  made  up  the  interior  of  the  house. 

Meals  were  plain  and  frugal,  but  Lena  had  no 
standard  of  comparison.  "Kosher"  they  were,  ac 
cording  to  simple  dietary  laws,  adequate  for  sus 
tenance.  Lena  augmented  her  meals  by  snatches 
from  near-by  fruit-stands.  The  meals  were  regular 
and  habitual.  She  had  never  known  hunger;  that 
is,  the  aching  kind.  The  cost  of  food  was  nearly 
thirty  cents  a  day,  including  feast  days, 

102 


LENA 

In  winter,  Lena  followed  the  example  of  Mrs. 
Giovanni  and  the  other  neighbors  and  brought  in 
fragments  of  market  boxes  from  Faneuil  Hall.  She 
knew  all  about  the  battles  and  massacres  commem 
orated  by  the  marks  of  houses  and  sidewalks,  and 
could  recite  the  preamble  to  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence.  Coal  was  purchased  by  the  bag,  figur 
ing  up  to  thirty  dollars  a  ton.  The  dingy  window 
went  down  in  September  and  stayed  down  until 
April  or  May.  Lena  was  cold,  but  never  frozen. 
She  thought  it  inevitable  that  she  should  be  cold 
in  winter  and  hot  in  summer. 

Lena's  clothes  were  warm  and  strong  and  con 
formed  to  the  prevailing  styles  of  Pitts  Street.  Do 
not  think  of  her  in  a  pink  pinafore,  or  in  the  rags 
of  a  moving-picture  beggar  girl. 

There  was  no  ventilation  through  the  window 
and  little  through  the  walls.  The  poor  are  more 
likely  to  stuff  cracks  with  cloth  and  paper  than  to 
freeze.  Ventilation  cost  thirty  dollars  a  ton.  Ad 
mitting  cold  air  through  a  window  from  the  wide, 
wide  world,  peddling  bags  of  rags  day  after  day  for 
small  coins,  spending  heaps  of  the  small  coins  at 
the  rate  of  thirty  dollars  a  ton  to  heat  the  cold  air, 
was  a  process  too  complicated  for  the  primitive 

103 


INDELIBLE 

brain  of  Mischa.  His  clothes  came  from  the  sec 
ond-hand  pile,  but  they  were  warm  and  covered 
his  angular  body.  He  looked  his  part.  He  used  no 
mattress  and  no  pillow.  Pennies  and  nickels  be 
came  soiled  dollar  bills,  with  now  and  then  a  two. 
There  was  a  small  pot  of  coins  in  a  tin  pot  on  the 
shelf,  and  a  pound  tobacco  tin  full  of  soiled  bills 
hidden  away.  Another  bill  was  added  from  time  to 
time. 

Mischa's  one  extravagance  was  Pippins.  Each 
evening  he  would  shove  Lena  gently  from  the  win 
dow,  place  a  wooden  chair  directly  in  front,  light 
his  vile  cigar,  and  puff  away  in  deadly  earnest. 
Lena  did  the  talking,  stirring  up  an  occasional  nod 
or  cluck.  Mischa  slouched  in  his  chair,  broad  feet 
turned  outward,  skull  cap  aloft,  whiskers  drooping. 
The  Pippin  was  held  by  three  fingers,  all  from  un 
derneath,  and  never  did  it  remain  hi  his  mouth  ex 
cept  while  he  was  puffing.  Then  it  was  straight  out 
from  the  middle.  Between  puffs  it  was  held  gin 
gerly  in  front  of  his  shirt.  One  cigar  each  evening, 
except,  of  course,  Saturday. 

Mischa  was  led  by  Lena  to  Shut  (synagogue) 
and  they  observed  "  Yom  Kippur"  and  "Rosh-ha- 
Shona." 

104 


LENA 

How  would  you  like  the  job  of  sorting  out  the 
Hebrews  from  the  Catholics  on  Pitts  Street  and 
making  them  keep  to  their  own? 

Life  for  the  ragman  was  an  unbroken  round  of 
duty  which  he  never  shirked  and  never  complained 
of.  Once  in  a  great  while,  a  Jewish  acquaintance 
would  come  in  of  an  evening.  Then  Lena  would  sit 
on  the  cot,  past  her  bedtime,  and  the  two  wrinkled 
figures  would  sit  and  smoke,  the  visitor  bringing 
his  own  cigar  for  safety's  sake,  in  case  his  host  had 
but  one.  There  is  not  a  more  hospitable  person  ha 
the  world  than  a  Jew,  but  purchases  are  made  in 
small  quantities  in  Pitts  Street.  The  conversation 
would  be  in  Yiddish  at  a  low  frequency  and  high 
voltage,  turn  and  turn  about  being  strictly  ob 
served. 

Lena  loved  her  school.  She  did  not  chafe  at  the 
routine  at  home  because  she  knew  no  better.  Sit 
ting  on  the  narrow  stairway,  she  saw  glowing  cloud 
pictures  of  Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware. 
She  thrilled  at  thoughts  of  the  great  Lincoln.  She 
would  cry  more  readily  at  a  circus  parade  than 
while  she  was  being  chastised.  There  were  more 
parades  than  beatings,  far  more.  Her  real  thrills 
came  when  flashes  of  melody  reached  her.  Not  a 

105 


INDELIBLE 

musical  sound  escaped  her  exquisite  young  ears. 
She  would  sit  an  hour  outside  a  door  where  a  be 
ginner  was  playing  five-note  exercises  on  a  violin. 
Her  face,  that  of  a  raven-haired,  white-skinned 
angel,  with  broad  clean  forehead,  small  vivid  lips, 
delicate  penciled  eyebrows,  and  great  dark  eyes, 
lighted  up  from  within,  when  music  trembled  her 
ear-drums.  Lena  did  not  dance  when  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  played.  She  stood  motionless  and  held  her 
breath. 

How  many  times  to  her  father  she  would  say, 

"Papa,  when  can  I  play  scripka?" 

ALWAYS  Lena  went  first  to  bed.  Sleep  came  with 
the  touch  of  the  pillow.  Mischa  said  no  prayers. 
He  stood  over  Lena's  cot,  his  eyes  on  her  white, 
cameo  features,  and  the  long  black-fringed  lashes. 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  thick,  black  braids, 
one  on  each  side. 

His  old  head  rocked  three  times,  side  to  side, 
left-right-left,  and  his  tongue  made  clucking  noises. 

Black  braids! 

THIS  happened  every  evening,  Saturdays  and 
all. 

106 


LENA 

LENA  grew  in  beauty  every  day,  or  rather,  every 
evening.  Girl's  faces  with  black  braids  on  white 
pillows  are  at  no  disadvantage  on  account  of 
shabby  clothes. 

Sometimes,  Lena  stood  for  hours  in  front  of  the 
Revere  House,  watching  neatly  and  flashily 
dressed  girls  scurry  in  and  steal  out.  Often,  the 
same  girl  would  go  in  and  out  many  times,  if  she 
were  lucky  —  and  strong.  Lena  loved  the  smooth 
short  skirts,  the  laundered,  gauzy  waists,  the  pol 
ished,  high-heeled  slippers,  and  gay,  nifty  hats. 
She  watched  the  smooth,  thin  silken  legs  twinkle 
up  the  stairs,  leather  handbag  swinging.  She 
looked  down  at  her  wrinkled  stockings  and  hitched 
them  up. 

Now  you  know  why  it  is  so  hard  to  know  who  may 
and  who  may  not  be  spoken  to,  as  you  walk  through 
the  North  End. 

IP  any  of  those  poor  jaded  girls  had  known  that 
little  Lena  had  selected  her  for  an  ideal,  she  would 
have  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  that  night,  or,  if  the 
day  had  been  one  of  the  darkest,  she  might  have 
swallowed  a  "bichloride  tablet." 


THE  CZAR  OF  WARD  EIGHT 

THE  hour  has  come  for  Mischa's  Pippin.  A  vile 
cigar.  He  pushes  Lena  gently  from  the  window 
and  places  a  scarred  wooden  chair  directly  in  front. 

Do  not  ridicule  a  Pippin.  Do  not  turn  a  wry  nose 
when  a  whiff  of  Jive-cent  smoke  starts  tickles  in  your 
throat.  A  long  ways  from  Havana,  to  be  sure,  but 
Pippins  have  their  uses. 

In  the  North  End  are  ragmen  and  men  who  sell 
collar  buttons  and  shoestrings  and  men  who  deal  in 
faded  clothes.  Flat,  low-crowned  black  derbies  and 
whiskers.  You  know  —  the  Sheenies. 

They  have  not  missed  a  day's  work  since  their  great 
seasickness. 

They  have  not  smoking-jackets  and  hammered- 
brass  ash-trays  on  pedestals,  nor  Havanas  or  Suma- 
tras  by  the  box.  For  a  while  they  have  next  to  nothing 
atoll. 

They  sit  not  on  screened  front  porches  of  bunga 
lows,  neither  sit  they  on  Morris  chairs  in  apartments. 

The  Sheenies  dress  in  hand-me-downs  and  the  ashes 
108 


LENA' 

drop  on  the  floor.  They  sit  by  windows  in  the  North 
End,  and  for  a  while  they  have  next  to  nothing  at  all. 
What  does  a  Skeenie  dream  o/,  smoking  his  five- 
cent  smoke  each  evening  ? 

Never  ridicule  a  Pippin. 

ONE  evening  brought  Mischa  two  guests.  Lena 
borrowed  a  chair  from  Pietro's  wife  and  then  went 
to  the  branch  library  to  read  history.  American 
history. 

The  talk  was  all  in  Yiddish.  One  of  the  black- 
coated  Jews  looked  close  to  prosperous.  He  did 
most  of  the  talking  and  his  gutturals  sounded  kind 
and  helpful.  Mischa  clucked  and  rocked  his  head. 
The  third  Jew  rocked  and  clucked. 

The  only  word  in  English  was  a  name.  It  was 
the  name  of  a  notorious  politician,  a  ward  boss,  a 
czar.  The  visitor  would  have  spoken  more  rever 
ently  of  Father  Abraham,  perhaps,  but  not  nearly 
so  cautiously.  He  did  not  pronounce  the  name  as 
you  might  hear  it  in  the  Back  Bay.  He  did  n't  say 
a  word  about  graft  or  crooked  politics,  and  you 
almost  always  hear^these  things  mentioned  in  con 
nection  with  the  name  of  Martin  J.  Mahoney,  Cza* 
of  old  Ward  Eight. 

109 


INDELIBLE 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Mischa  took  his 
pound  tobacco  tins  from  their  hiding-place  and 
counted  wads  of  soiled  small  bills. 

All  three  rocked  their  heads  and  clucked. 

Lena  returned  from  the  public  library  and  the 
visitors  patted  her  raven  head  and  spoke  in  softer 
Yiddish.  They  picked  their  way  down  the  narrow 
stairway  and  were  gone. 

THE  next  evening,  Mischa  and  one  of  the  guests 
knocked  on  the  outside  door  of  the  Herricks  Club 
in  the  North  End.  It  was  a  busy  evening.  The 
city  election  was  not  far  away.  Disreputable,  fur 
tive  figures  slunk  in  and  out,  but  they  did  n't  stay 
long  inside.  They  had  work  to  do,  and  they  seemed 
to  know  exactly  what  it  was,  when  they  came  out. 
A  loud-vested  Irishman  with  a  breath  answered 
the  timid  knock.  He  listened  a  moment  to  the 
other  Jew.  Mischa's  face  was  expressionless. 

"I'll  see  the  Old  Man,"  said  the  Irishman. 

Three  newspaper-men  came  forth  from  the  inner 
sanctum,  and  they  looked  as  if  they  were  in  no 
doubt  as  to  what  they  had  just  heard. 

"You  got  to  hand  it  to  Martin,"  said  one. 

The  lieutenant  ushered  the  prosperous  Jew  and 
110 


LENA 

Mischa  into  the  Presence.  At  a  desk,  in  his 
phirt-sleeves,  sat  an  Irishman  with  a  prodigious 
jaw  and  a  high,  bald  forehead,  chewing  a  tooth 
pick.  He  looked  straight  at  the  spokesman,  who 
instinctively  recoiled.  Martin  always  takes  the 
offensive. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?  Be  quick  about  it. 
I'm  busy." 

The  words  shot  out  like  a  spiteful  exhaust. 
Martin  seemed  to  push  against  the  floor  with 
his  toes  to  emphasize  and  project  each  syllable. 
The  Jew  explained  apologetically.  Mischa  stood 
motionless.  At  every  word,  his  eyelids  fluttered  a 
trifle. 

"What  does  he  want  with  a  second-hand  cloth 
ing  dealer's  license?  Ask  him?" 

Levine  turned  to  Mischa  with  a  gust  of  Yid 
dish.  Martin  chewed  his  toothpick  impatiently. 

"He  says  he  wants  his  daughter  Lena  should 
play  scripka" 

"Play  scripchur?  What's  that?** 

"Scripka.  Fiddle." 

Martin  relaxed  a  bit.  "How  old  is  Lena?" 

"Twelve." 

"How  many  other  children?" 
Ill 


INDELIBLE 

"Lena  is  the  only  one.  Her  mamma,  olov  hasko- 
lom,  died  in  the  old  country." 

"Huh!  Come  back  Tuesday.  I'll  fix  you  up. 
Give  his  name  to  Mike." 

The  lieutenant  opened  the  door  and  took  the 
necessary  data  in  the  outer  room.  Then  the  Jews 
shuffled  out.  Mischa  heard  the  details  on  the  way 
down  the  street.  His  face  was  just  the  same. 

That  night,  he  shook  his  head  back  and  forth 
five  times,  left-right-left-right-left,  instead  of  three, 
as  Lena  lay  asleep,  and  one  of  his  hard  fingers 
touched  a  thick,  black  braid.  He  muttered  some 
thing  which  sounded  like  "olov  hasholom." 

Olov  hasholom  means  "Peace  to  her  soul,"  so  he 
could  n't  have  meant  Leijinke's  (Little  Lena). 

NEXT  day  Sad  Eyes  was  sold  and  a  few  more  soiled 
small  bills  went  into  a  tin  box.  Nothing  wasted  in 
the  junk  trade. 

There  were  just  as  many  bills  in  the  box  as  there 
were  before  the  visit  to  the  Herricks  Club.  Don't 
forget  that. 

It  is  said  that  Martin  is  a  grafter,  that  he  has 
salted  down  his  pile,  but  it  is  also  said  that  he  does 
not  hand  over  soiled,  small  bills  through  the  wire 

112 


LENA 

cage  window  at  the  bank.  It  is  said  that  he  hands 
in  crisp,  new,  big  ones,  and  that  there  are  plenty 
more  where  those  bills  come  from. 
More  power  to  him  1 


GREEN  STREET 

GKEEN  STREET  is  not  far  from  Pitts  Street,  as  the 
sparrow  flies.  Probably  you  have  seen  it  on  your 
way  to  the  North  Station. 

Ready-made  coats  and  trousers  with  round, 
white  tags  and  prices  crossed  conspicuously.  Clus 
ters  of  Golden  Balls,  hung  in  threes,  on  the  level  of 
pigeon-stained  street  lamps.  Windows,  dust,  and 
windows.  Jostle  from  a  passer  on  the  narrow 
brown  brick  sidewalk.  Car  tracks  and  not  so  many 
kids.  Bright  brass  trombones  in  windows,  old 
clarinets  in  worn  green-lined  cases  with  the  snap 
broken  off,  dice,  old  watch  chains,  mandolins. 
Watches,  cut-glass  stickpins.  A  black-capped  Shy- 
lock  peers  through  a  queer  small  one-eyed  glass  at 
the  works  of  a  cheap  watch,  run  down.  He  shakes 
his  head  rudely.  A  sheepish,  shabby  man  shuffles 
out,  avoiding  your  eyes,  turning  his  head  away 
from  the  coffee,  smoke-tinged  fog  from  a  lunch 
room  door. 

Hard-hearted,  that  pawnbroker.  By  the  way, 
did  you  give  that  bum  the  price  of  a  meal? 

A  drug-store   with   two  hundred   suspensories 


LENA 

and  four  white-painted  legs  in  rubber  stockings, 
red-brown  douche  bags,  hot-water  bottles.  It  is 
painted  yellow. 

A  window  labeled  "Leather  Goods"  display 
ing  pasteboard  suitcases  and  traveling-bags,  and 
a  trunk,  inside  out,  with  greenish-gray  compart 
ments  lined  with  bedroom  wall-paper.  Slap,  slap 
of  a  cop's  flat  foot.  He  rings  his  box  and  slaps 
slowly  down  the  street.  He  sticks  his  curly  head 
and  vigorous  shoulders  in  a  lunch-room  door  and  a 
Greek  says,  "'Ello,  Pat."  "Hello,  yourself,  Short 
Order."  Whiff  of  grease  spilled  on  the  gas-burner. 
A  Salvation  Army  meeting-place,  floor  and  walls 
painted  slate  blue.  "Come  to  the  Fold,"  clasped 
hands  and  a  cross,  painted  in  black  on  the  pane. 

You  remember  Green  Street.  The  meeting- 
place  of  greenhorns  working  up,  and  ne'er-do- 
wells,  sinking  down.  There  are  heartbreaks  but 
few  tears.  There  are  hopes  but  few  smiles.  There 
are  deadbeats  and  failures  and  thugs  and  sharks. 
There  are  also  some  high-priced  watches  ha  the 
hock  shops. 

Did  you  ever  lose  a  ticket? 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  seven,  the  sour-mash 
stench  of  beer  and  rot-gut  whiskey,  tobacco  spit 

115 


INDELIBLE 

and  smoke,  and  the  ribald,  senseless,  drunken  bab 
ble  came  through  the  swinging  doors  on  week-day 
evenings.  Sunday  nights  it  came  through  back 
doors  or  side  doors.  Across  the  street,  a  portable 
organ  wheezed,  a  cornet  blared,  a  lady  sergeant 
piped,  and  nine  down-and-outers  stood,  caps  in 
hand,  through  all  five  verses  of  "Rock  of  Ages." 
A  down-and-outer  has  a  queer  way  of  standing. 
His  shoulders  slouch,  his  knees  falter  at  his  weight, 
his  hands  forever  fumble  something,  and  he  dodges 
if  quick  motions  are  made. 

SUCH  things  should  n't  be.  They  are  a  nuisance. 
Why  can't  men  and  women  stand  on  their  feet  and 
be  self-supporting?  Why  should  the  lazy  and  shift 
less  come  whining  around  for  meals?  Has  n't  a 
respectable  citizen  enough  to  do  to  keep  his  own 
out  of  the  poor-house?  They  would  n't  take  a  job  if 
you  gave  it  to  'em.  Same  of  them  clean  up  more 
money  panhandling  than  a  working-man  can  make 
honestly. 

Shiftless  people  make  me  sick.   They'll  get  no 
sympathy  out  of  me. 

ONE  day  in  nineteen-seven,  Mischa  walked  over  to 

116 


LENA 

Green  Street,  peering  silently  into  windows  as  he 
walked.  The  clang  of  the  pussy-footed  patrol  did 
not  startle  him.  He  shuffled  along  alone,  but  his 
hand  never  left  his  inside  pocket,  where  a  sheaf  of 
bills  reposed. 

He  entered  the  door  of  an  empty  shop  and  stood 
a  moment,  looking  gravely  into  corners.  For  quite 
a  while  he  stood  there.  A  wagon  drove  up  and 
stopped  outside.  A  Jew  dismounted  and  came  in : 
the  one  who  looked  almost  prosperous.  The  wagon 
was  loaded  with  hand-me-downs  and  caps  and  der 
bies.  The  two  men  spoke  in  Yiddish  as  armful  after 
armful  was  dumped  inside  on  the  floor  of  the  shop. 
They  sat  awhile  on  piles  of  coats,  baled  together, 
and  the  other  man  brought  forth  two  ten-cent  ci 
gars  and  handed  one  to  Mischa.  They  conversed 
gravely,  turn  and  turn  about. 

A  sheaf  of  bills  was  passed  —  fives  and  tens. 
First  they  were  dimes  and  nickels  and  they  grew  to 
dollar  bills,  with  an  occasional  two.  Now  they  are 
fives  and  tens  and  buy  a  stock  of  second-hand 
clothing.  They  may  go  farther.  Keep  your  eye  on 
them. 

DID  the  other  Jew  take  advantage  of  Mischa? 

117 


INDELIBLE 

Did  he  soak  him?  Were  there  full  two  dozen  coats 
in  each  bundle?  Mischa  did  n't  count  them.  Mis- 
cha  did  n't  quibble  on  the  price.  He  would  have 
argued  with  a  Christian  ten  minutes  over  fifty 
pounds  of  rags  and  looked  the  whole  bag  over.  Was 
he  taking  an  awful  chance?  Did  that  prosper 
ous  Jew  take  advantage  of  his  brother  on  the  up 
grade? 

The  answer,  my  friend,  is  "No."  Shakespeare, 
who  wrote  a  play  called  "The  Merchant  of  Ven 
ice,"  never  lived  on  Green  Street.  Shakespeare 
wrote  a  play  called  "Hamlet"  also,  but  there  are 
Danes  outside  the  asylums.  Furthermore,  there 
are  ladies  in  the  British  Isles  who  do  not  walk  in 
their  sleep. 

LENA  and  her  father  moved  into  the  little  room  be 
hind  the  second-hand  store.  The  room  was  twelve 
by  sixteen,  and  contained  a  table  with  an  oil 
cloth  top,  four  wooden  chairs,  a  washstand  in  the 
corner,  and  a  stove.  There  were  cloth  curtains 
on  the  window.  Lena's  cot  was  screened  off  in 
an  alcove  by  a  drapery  with  vertical  bluebirds 
and  horizontal  golden  apples.  She  took  over 
the  cooking  some  years  before  and  the  meals 

118 


LENA 

cost  more  than  sixty  cents  a  day.  Lena  learned 
to  make  geddmpfte  kalbfleisch  from  Mrs.  A.  Le- 
vinsky.  She  also  drew  the  pasteboard  sign  on 
the  door. 

M.  BOROFSKY 
CLOTHING  BOUGHT  AND  SOLD 

MISCHA'S  vocabulary  enlarged  somewhat,  to  fit 
the  second-hand  clothing  business,  but  still  left 
much  to  be  desired.  He  resorted,  in  the  main,  to 
shrugs  and  shoulder  lifts  and  eloquent  palms  and 
elbows.  His  tin  boxes  filled  more  rapidly  than  they 
did  on  Pitts  Street. 

Lena's  ears  were  sharp,  in  the  back  room,  and 
questions  from  customers  which  puzzled  Mischa 
were  answered  by  a  girl's  contralto  voice  which 
meant  business.  Customers  often  left  their  old 
clothes  behind,  and  these  were  sold  to  a  Jew  with  a 
horse  and  rickety  wagon  who  called  out  "Regs- 
de-bot"  about  as  often  as  his  horse  switched  his 
moth-eaten  tail. 

Nothing  wasted  hi  the  second-hand  clothing 
business. 


119 


INDELIBLE 

ON  the  afternoon  before  the  Thirtieth  of  May, 
Mischa  closed  his  little  shop  and  was  led  by  Lena 
to  the  school  for  "Exercises."  Lena  is  in  the  last 
grade  and  her  raven  hair  is  coiled  up  on  her 
head.  Her  clothes  conform  to  the  standard  of 
Green  Street,  and  are  neat  and  clean,  but  not 
just  right.  Her  fingers  have  not  been  dirty  for 
some  time. 

The  school  hall  was  crowded  that  afternoon  with 
adult  Wops  and  Harps  and  Sheenies,  and  their 
eyes  were  bright  when  Lena  recited  "Barbara 
Frietchie,"  although  some  of  them  did  not  under 
stand.  Naturally,  they  would  think  Frietchie  was 
an  adjective. 

Foreigners  should  be  made  to  learn  the  English 
language. 

The  only  time  the  old  folks  nodded  or  drowsed  a 
bit  was  during  the  last  hour  of  a  story  of  Libby 
Prison  and  Gettysburg  by  Corporal  Nathan,  aged 
sixty-six,  Grand  Army.  The  young  folks  kept 
awake  for  this,  and  they  sang  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner"  at  the  close  in  a  way  that  made  the  vet 
eran's  eyes  go  dim. 

Patriotism  is  a  word  the  North  End  cannot  pro 
nounce  as  well  as  they  do  it  over  the  hill  on  Beacon 

120 


LENA 

Street  where  they  talk  "Americanization"  and  ape 
the  English. 

MISCHA'S  face  did  not  change  during  the  entire  in< 
cident,  unless  you  happened  to  be  looking  at  his 
eyes  when  Lena  finished  "Barbara  Frietchie." 


SHOPPING 

IN  the  summer,  business  was  good,  and  Lena  was* 
on  deck  all  day  to  answer  questions.  Customers 
changed  their  tone  sometimes  when  Lena  pierced 
them  with  her  eyes. 

Lena  is  a  pretty  name. 

In  August,  there  was  another  conference  with 
the  prosperous  Jew.  The  conversation  was  in  Yid 
dish,  but  in  the  midst  of  it,  Lena  burst  from  the 
back  room  and  threw  her  arms  wildly  around  her 
father's  neck  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  Joy  acts  that  way  sometimes. 

The  visitor  patted  her  raven  hair,  the  rich,  un 
ruly  coils  of  which  were  slightly  disarranged  by  her 
typhoon  of  affection. 

THE  next  day,  a  neighbor  tended  Mischa's  little 
store  and  he  went  with  Lena  downtown  to  do  some 
shopping. 

"Mine  little  girl  should  have  clothes  like  a  lady 
for  the  Conservatory,"  he  said  in  Yiddish.  They 
bought  a  neat  suit,  like  the  finest  in  the  Revere 
House  and  a  pretty  waist  and  shoes  and  stockings. 


LENA 

Did  Mischa  quarrel  with  the  price?    Were  the 
marcelled  salesladies  civil  to  him? 
The  answer,  my  comrade,  is  "  No." 

DOES  N'T  it  make  you  sick  the  way  these  Jew  girls 
sport  swell  clothes? 

THEN  Lena  had  a  word  or  two  to  say.  "  Should  her 
dear  papa  look  like  a  ragman?  Should  n't  he  have 
swell  clothes?  Is  n't  he  a  business  man  now?" 

They  went  into  a  big  department  store,  where 
two  thousand  men  and  women  are  employed  at 
hard-living  wages.  They  took  an  elevator,  with 
great  difficulty  on  account  of  the  large  number  of 
passengers.  The  ones  who  wanted  to  get  off  at 
"Ladies'  Underwear  and  Negligee"  were  all  stuffed 
into  the  rear  of  the  car  and  nearly  spoiled  Lena's 
new  shoes  trying  to  get  out  at  the  first  stop.  "Say, 
have  a  heart!"  "Dear  me!  "  It  was  the  same  all 
the  way  up  to  the  top,  where  the  nigger  said  "  Men's 
and  Youths'  Clothing." 

Youth  is  a  silly  word. 

They  stopped  at  a  counter  which  had  a  placard 
"Marked  Down,"  and  Mischa,  after  fingering  the 
goods,  said,  in  Yiddish,  that  he  had  just  as  good 

123 


INDELIBLE 

for  half  the  money.  A  clerk,  who  was  a  fresh  guy 
with  polished  finger-tips,  stood  quite  close  to  Lena 
—  until  she  raised  her  eyes. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  something  bet 
ter,"  he  said. 

"Where  are  the  first-class  suits?'*  said  Lena  in  a 
voice  which  meant  business  and  sudden  death. 

They  crossed  the  carpeted  aisle  and  priced  a 
modest  gray.  Up  went  Mischa's  hands.  He 
launched  a  gust  of  gutturals  and  strode  out.  Noth 
ing  Lena  could  say  would  detain  him  in  that  store. 

WHEN  they  had  left,  the  fresh  guy  yawned  and 
looked  at  the  clock  and  said: 

"These  tight-wad  Kikes  give  me  a  pain.  Say, 
Clarence,  did  you  pipe  that  black-haired  frail  that 
just  blew  in  and  out  with  Isaac?" 


THE  VIOLIN 

BOSTON  is  Utopia  for  lovers  of  ancient  places  and 
articles,  but  the  Labyrinth  for  strangers  in  a  hurry. 

You  know  the  business  district  and  the  shop 
ping  district  and  the  subways  and  tunnels  and 
theaters  and  ball-parks.  You  have  hurried  through 
the  Common  and  the  Public  Garden,  to  the  North 
Station  or  the  South  Station.  You  may  have 
bought  chickens  and  roasts  in  Faneuil  Hall  Mar 
ket  on  Saturday.  In  your  childhood  days,  you 
may  have  viewed  the  Holy  Grail  series  in  the  Pub 
lic  Library  and  wondered  innocently  anent  the 
nature  of  a  Grail. 

If  you  are  a  Conservative,  you  know  State 
Street  and  Milk  Street  and  one  or  two  good  dining- 
rooms.  You  swear  by  the  "Transcript"  and  at  the 
"American."  Conservatives  buy  newspapers,  but 
seldom  read  them.  Nothing  but  crime  and  scan 
dal. 

If  you  are  a  Radical,  you  know  Station  Three 
and  the  Hill  from  Louisburg  Square  on  down,  and 
one  or  two  bum  Bohemian  restaurants.  You  think 
the  "Transcript"  is  a  joke,  and  you  know  the 

125 


INDELIBLE 

"American"  makes  first-class  carpet  lining.  Ka<jt- 
icals  read  newspapers,  but  seldom  buy  them.  Noth 
ing  but  capitalistic  propaganda. 

If  you  are  a  tourist,  you  know  the  big,  blue 
Rubbernecks  where  you  jump  in  and  shell  out,  and 
then  the  man  takes  his  megaphone  and  it 's  all  over 
but  the  shouting.  You  view  the  place  where  the 
Colonial  schoolboys  interviewed  General  Stark, 
the  John  Hancock  place,  the  churches,  North  and 
South,  respectively,  in  one  of  which  Paul  Revere 
hung  either  one  or  two  lanterns.  You  have  met 
that  charming  lady  marked  "Boston  Guide,"  and 
received  fifty  dollars' worth  of  anecdote  and  his 
tory  for  fifty  cents  hi  cash  and  twice  that  much  in 
shoe  leather. 

What  does  that  woman  wear  on  her  feet? 

You  have  taken  the  harbor  trip  and  seen  the  un 
guarded  forts  and  the  unused  piers  and  the  unde 
veloped  resources.  Perhaps  you  stood  under  the 
spreading  chestnut  tree  —  or  elm,  which  was  it?  — 
where  Washington  addressed  the  troops.  You  have 
visited  the  State  House  with  its  gilded  dome  and 
silver  tongues  and  bronze  statues  and  no  end  of 
brass. 

The  Old  State  House,  where  the  Red  Men  and 
126 


LENA 

the  Blue  Laws  were  framed,  the  Old  Frigate  Con 
stitution,  and  the  Old  Howard,  all  are  landmarks, 
excepting  the  Frigate. 

In  Charlestown,  Bunker  Hill  goes  up  and  real 
estate  goes  down.  Ever  try  to  get  a  room  in 
Cambridge  in  the  fall? 

There  is  gray  New  England  granite,  ruddy  Chel 
sea  bricks,  aged  paintless  wood  from  Maine  and 
Vermont,  and  new  creosoted  shingles  from  Oregon 
and  Washington. 

Natives  get  from  place  to  place,  but  are  rusty  on 
the  landmarks.  Visitors  know  the  landmarks  all 
too  well,  but  lose  their  hotels  regularly. 

Streets  of  Boston  may  be  mastered,  but  the  al 
leys  are  a  different  matter.  It  takes  the  real  city 
breed  to  know  the  alleys. 

FATHER  and  daughter  found  an  obscure  alley  with 
wooden  buildings,  and  toy  sidewalks,  and  old- 
timers.  It  was  lined  with  weathered  signs  denot 
ing  crafts  in  which  patience  is  all  and  speed  is  noth 
ing.  Crafts  in  which  the  methods  do  not  change 
from  one  century  to  another.  Stores  in  which  the 
oldest  article  is  the  dearest  and  the  one  most  re 
luctantly  sold.  There  may  be  purchased  old,  old 

127 


INDELIBLE 

books  you  have  long  forgot  the  name  of,  if  you 
can  quote  a  line  or  two. 

Do  you  ever  get  by  a  second-hand  bookstore? 

At  the  end  of  the  alley,  the  oldest  of  the  old- 
timers,  Adolph  Kugel,  made  violins  and  violon 
cellos  and  violas.  A  hard  place  to  find,  but  musi 
cians  whose  names  are  on  the  tongues  of  nations 
have  found  it  time  and  time  again  and  have  left 
there  instruments  they  would  not  have  trusted  to 
their  Emperors  or  their  wives.  The  soda  clerk  of 
the  drug-store  backing  into  the  alley  calls  Adolph 
an  "old  geezer."  Violinists  who  are  rude  to  royalty 
call  him  "Herr  Kugel."  In  either  case,  Adolph 
smiled  gently  at  the  speaker,  for  he  loves  every 
body,  even  his  landlord,  to  whom  he  owes  rent. 
All  violin-makers  are  amiable.  It  is  the  makers 
of  player  pianos  and  phonographs  and  flutes  who 
beat  their  wives. 

Mischa  and  Lena  entered  the  dim  instrument 
shop.  The  girl  was  never  lovelier.  Her  dark  eyes 
sparkled  with  intense  joy,  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  her  raven  hair  and  white  forehead  made  a 
striking  picture  in  the  soft  surroundings.  Adolph 
smiled  and  bowed. 

Think  of  bowing  to  a  Sheenie. 
128 


LENA 

"So!  The  young  lady  is  to  play  violin. " 

Adolph  stood  very  close  to  Lena,  and  he  did  not 
change  his  position  when  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
him.  He  put  a  kind  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
looked  into  her  face  reverently.  The  psychic  bond 
between  musicians  was  sealed.  Suddenly,  Adolph 
felt  a  glow  inside  and  his  faded  eyes  lighted,  and  he 
sighed.  He  took  up  one  of  Lena's  delicate  hands, 
the  left,  and  she  let  it  lie  relaxed  in  his  palm.  He 
looked  it  over  thoughtfully. 

"  So,"  he  said,  and  he  wiped  his  spectacles.  In  a 
sort  of  trance,  he  walked  to  the  back  of  the  shop 
and  took  from  a  dusty  shelf  a  violin  case  which  he 
wiped  clean  with  the  tail  of  his  coat.  The  violin 
was  a  lady  violin  with  a  slim,  smooth,  thorough 
bred  neck  and  throat.  It  had  grace  and  symmetry 
and  soul.  The  perfect  back  shone  with  fine-grained 
beauty.  Where  has  man  traced  such  patterns  as 
are  found  inside  of  trees?  The  varnish  was  rich  and 
mellow  and  the  least  bit  clouded  where  the  back 
had  touched  the  box.  Adolph  tested  the  sounding- 
post  and  tuned  the  strings.  At  every  pizzicato,  he 
cocked  his  head  and  a  liquid  drop  of  sound  fell  from 
ceiling  to  floor.  Lena's  heartbeats  accelerated. 

The  violin-maker  closed  the  case,  after  wrap- 
129 


INDELIBLE 

ping  the  instrument  in  black  old  silk.  His  last  look 
inside  was  wistful.  Lena  trembled.  Her  arm  shook 
as  she  clasped  the  case  tight  to  her  side  to  be  sure 
it  could  not  fall. 

The  price?  A  hurt  look  passed  Heir  Kugel's  face 
as  he  took  the  fifty  dollars.  A  sweet  look  came  as 
he  said,  "Auf  Wiedersehen."  A  sad  look  came  as 
he  watched  them  down  the  street.  He  wiped  his 
spectacles  again  and  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 
He  stood  before  a  blank  space  on  the  shelf  and 
wept,  and  he  shuddered  at  the  end  as  he  saw  the 
bills  still  in  his  hand. 

Adolph  was  seventy.  Fifty  years  before  was 
born  to  Frau  Adolph  Kugel,  a  daughter.  The  Ku- 
gels  lived  in  a  little  town  in  Austria,  near  enough 
to  Vienna  so  that  musicians  whose  names  are  on 
the  tongues  of  nations  left  their  instruments  with 
Franz  Kugel,  Adolph's  father.  In  that  little  town, 
Adolph  learned  to  make  violins  and  violas  and  vio 
loncellos.  The  daughter  was  called  Elizabeth. 
Soon  after  she  was  born,  Adolph  commenced  a  vio 
lin  for  her,  and  it  took  him  many  painstaking  hours 
over  a  period  of  several  years,  but  the  Frau  died 
and  the  daughter  died,  and  when  Adolph  recovered 
from  the  plague,  he  emigrated  to  forget,  and  the 

ISO 


LENA 

violin  in  question  is  a  lady  violin  with  a  smooth, 
slim  neck  and  throat. 

Fifty  dollars!  And  he  had  given  it  to  Lena, 
scarcely  knowing  why.  The  old  void  started  throb 
bing  and  the  faces  of  two  Elizabeths  haunted  the 
dim  old  shop. 

People  hold  their  breaths  and  try  to  hold  their  tears 
as  violinists  play.  They  think  of  earthly  things  in 
heavenly  ways.  Sobs  are  noiseless,  fearing  to  disturb 
the  theme. 

At  the  end,  applause.  A  storm  of  hand-clapping 
and  rubbing,  rolling  echoes  in  the  persecuted  air. 
People  think  they  do  it  for  the  artist,  but,  in  fact,  they 
do  it  for  themselves.  They  pound  their  hands  to  soften 
the  transition. 

The  artist  bows  and  is  glad.  He  is  appreciated. 

The  composer  ?  The  creator  ?  The  man  who  dreamed 
the  music?  Where  is  he?  Dead  or  far  away.  He 
comes  in  for  fleeting  praise  by  the  few  who  know  of 
him.  He  is  mentioned. 

But  the  voice  inside  the  pattern  of  fine-grained 
wood? 

Gentle  fingers  rubbing  and  carving  and  fitting. 
Days  and  days  and  years.  Shoulders  stooping,  eyes 

131 


INDELIBLE 

dimming,  "but  the  gentle  fingers  rubbing  and  carving 
and  polishing.  Care,  patience,  gentleness.  A  task 
well  done.  All  the  hopes  and  loves  and  baffled  as 
pirations  of  the  maker  go  through  his  finger-tips  and 
take  haven  for  all  time  in  that  resonant,  pure-grained 
instrument. 

Nobody  thinks  of  that  while  the  concert  sounds. 
The  toil  and  sorrow  that  gives  the  voice  its  timbre  is 
heard  and  felt,  but  the  artist  gets  praise  for  that.  He 
should,  in  part.  It  took  him  years  to  find  it.  Who 
besides  the  artist  has  a  thought  for  the  violin-maker, 
unless  God  may  be  counted,  jar  God  distributes  pa 
tient  joy  and  sorrow. 

Applause  does  n't  matter,  anyhow.  The  listeners 
applaud  to  vent  their  own  dismay  to  be  on  earth  again. 

LENA  stood  before  her  violin  all  evening,  looking 
raptly  at  it.  She  was  fourteen  years  of  age.  Surely 
such  intensity  could  not  accumulate  in  such  a  time. 

Mischa  smoked  his  Pippin. 

The  girl  plucked  the  strings  gently  and  heard  the 
pizzicato  water-drops  of  sound  go  "plunk"  from 
roof  to  floor  of  the  low  back  room.  Never  once  did 
she  touch  the  bow.  She  knew  by  instinct  she  must 
wait  till  she  was  told. 

132 


LENA 

The  next  day,  Lena  entered  the  Conservatory. 
She  looked  upon  the  statue  of  Beethoven  at  the 
entrance  and  it  seemed  to  say,  "Be  resolute.  Be 
brave  and  conquer."  Her  will  threw  out  electric 
sparks.  She  paid  her  tuition  at  a  ticket  window. 
She  found  Room  "K"  without  difficulty  and 
knocked  without  timidity.  Herr  August  Rein- 
hardt  opened  and  smiled. 

"So!  You  are  to  study  violin.  Ganz  gut!" 

He  looked  at  her  artist's  fingers  and  said  "So!" 
He  asked  her  about  her  previous  lessons,  and  when 
she  said,  apprehensively,  that  she  had  had  none, 
he  said  "So!"  with  a  still  more  pleased  inflection. 
Then  he  took  the  violin  case  from  Lena's  reluctant 
hand  and  removed  the  instrument  carefully.  He 
started  in  surprise,  and  a  very  short  "So"  escaped 
under  his  breath.  He  tried  the  strings  with  his  fin 
gers  and  icicles  dripped  through  winter  morning 
sunshine.  He  took  out  the  bow  and  rubbed  it  again 
and  again  with  a  fresh  block  of  resin. 

Then  came  a  tone  on  the  G  string,  the  string 
which  knows  the  depths.  The  lady  violin  knew 
what  was  expected  of  her.  She  was  a  thoroughbred 
and  went  through  the  ceremonies  of  introduction 
in  a  courtly  manner.  Herr  Reinhardt  scratched  his 

133 


INDELIBLE 

head  and  looked  closely  at  Lena,  and  he  saw  her 
great  black  eyes  were  wet.  "So/**  he  said  with  a 
rising,  long  inflection. 

Patiently,  he  showed  her  how  to  bow.  Astonish 
ment  came  to  her  as  it  dawned  suddenly  that  the 
bow  was  of  the  utmost  importance.  She  had  al 
ways  thought  of  the  violin.  The  bow !  At  last  he  let 
her  draw  it  on  an  open  string.  A  jagged,  tremulous 
wail  resulted.  Pain  paled  her  cheek.  She  hesi 
tated.  What  was  the  matter? 

Then  the  thought  returned.  It  was  that  bow. 
She  concentrated  fiercely  on  that  long,  ungainly 
thing.  She  would  not  make  ugly  sounds.  The  new 
tone  started  feebly  and  tremolo,  but  it  became 
firmer  toward  the  end.  Her  second  was  better  than 
her  first.  Herr  Reinhardt  bobbed  around  with  little 
hints  and  pats  and  grunts.  He  stood  her  before  the 
mirror. 

How  glad  a  looking-glass  must  feel  at  such  a 
tune. 

What  deserves  more  pity  than  a  looking-glass? 

Broken  faces  stare  therein  and  see  themselves. 
The  bearded  doctor  says, "  You  witt  recover,  never  fear.  ** 
What  does  the  mirror  say  ?  A  mirror  cannot  lie. 
134 


LENA 

It  says,  "  Get  ready.* 
The  shaven  priest  says,  "  Peace  in  Heaven.*9 

The  leering  glass  says,  "  Worms." 
The  husband  stammers,  "  You  are  never  old  to  me,  my 
darling."  But  the  mirror  flinches  and  says,  "Drudg 
ery  and  children  leave  their  marks.  How  do  you  look 
to  yourself,  old  has-been  ?  " 

Lies  of  preachers. 

Lies  of  doctors. 

Lies  of  lovers. 

But  the  glass  can  tell  no  lies.  All  that  flat,  cold, 
cruel  thing  can  do  is  tell  the  truth  and  rims  of  bitter 
mould  collect  beneath  the  gilded  frame. 

When  't  is  cracked,  there  is  hope  for  it. 
When  't  is  smashed,  there  is  rest  for  it. 

LENA  was  instructed  in  bowing  and  told  to  prac 
tice  with  her  bow  arm  to  a  looking-glass,  always  on 
the  open  strings  at  first.  Tone  she  must  get.  The 
rest  would  follow. 

What  a  day! 

She  walked  on  air  to  Green  Street  and  the  store. 
Again  she  threw  her  arms  around  her  father's 
neck  and  sobbed,  receiving  clucks  and  shoulder 
pats. 

185 


INDELIBLE 

IN  the  afternoon,  Lena,  flushed  hot  with  excite 
ment  of  her  first  practicing,  noticed  something  new 
about  herself  which  frightened  her.  What  could 
the  trouble  be? 

She  ran  in  breathless  terror  to  Mrs.  Orenberg, 
who  comforted  her  and  told  her  what  to  do  and 
mothered  her  a  bit. 

What  a  day!  Lena  entered  two  new  worlds  on 
that  September  day. 

WEEKS  passed,  and  soon  Herr  Remhardt's  days  of 
frightful  wails  and  tortured  squeals  from  large  and 
small  beginners  and  new,  underseasoned  wood,  and 
scantily  resined  horsehair,  were  illuminated  by 
three  bright  hours  a  week.  Lena's  three  hours  a 
week.  For  forty  plodding  years,  Herr  Reinhardt 
had  hoped  for  such  a  pupil.  He  had  the  heart  of  a 
musician,  but  he  also  had  the  luck  of  a  musician. 
Things  had  kept  him  down.  Sickness,  babies,  bank 
failures,  fickleness  of  women,  a  careless  God's 
whole  repertoire.  He  had  never  reached  the  con 
cert  stage,  but  he  had  taught  those  who  have. 

How  do  such  things  happen? 

They  worked.  She  did  twice  her  span  of  hours. 
How  he  strained  to  find  a  fault.  A  sixteenth  of  an 

136 


LENA 

inch  in  the  elevation  of  the  elbow  meant  a  pat  and 
an  instructive  "So."  Every  finger  in  the  girl's  left 
hand  ha>d  to  learn  its  proper  curve.  Every  joint 
had  to  be  just  "So."  They  forsook  the  open  strings 
and  romped  with  five  whole  notes,  a  sweep  of  the 
bow  to  each.  The  first  lesson  in  which  Lena  made 
her  own  notes  on  the  strings  gladdened  the  old  teach 
er's  heart.  Her  ear  was  on  the  job.  She  heard  and 
corrected  each  note  to  the  precise  pitch. 

ONE  evening,  she  started  to  practice  and  turned 
dead  white  at  the  first  note.  Something  was  wrong. 
The  tone  of  her  violin  was  not  its  own.  It  was  dead. 
She  looked  it  over.  The  grain  was  perfect.  Not  a 
crack  or  blemish.  What  had  happened?  As  she 
tipped  it,  the  sounding-post  rolled  and  rattled  in 
side.  She  questioned  her  father  in  Yiddish.  Mis- 
cha  was  not  guilty.  He  knew  that  violins  were  not 
for  such  as  he. 

Lena  was  frightened.  She  hurried  to  the  Con 
servatory,  but  Herr  Reinhardt  was  not  there. 
What  should  she  do  ?  Then  she  thought  of  the  al 
ley  of  old-timers  and  hurried  thither.  As  she  ap 
proached  the  shop  of  Kugel,  she  heard  sounds  like 
an  organ  of  violins  and  deeper  strings.  Chords,  each 

137 


INDELIBLE 

separate  note  of  which  throbbed  and  sobbed  and 
vibrated  from  the  direct  touch  of  skillful  fingers. 
Goblins  and  ghosts  and  mischievous  gray  mist 
shapes  tread  the  alley  of  old-timers,  emanating 
from  the  shop  of  violins,  each  ghost  abruptly  round 
ing  a  weather-beaten  corner  as  the  music  stopped. 

A  string  quartette  within,  just  ending  some 
thing  minor  and  fantastic  and  weird.  Yes,  it  was 
from  Schumann.  Who  else  makes  ghosts  walk  al 
leys  of  old-timers  —  ghosts  without  malice  toward 
adolescent  beauty. 

Lena  timidly  entered  the  shop,  and  Herr  Kugel 
looked  up  with  an  involuntary  glad  cry.  He  had 
prayed  she  would  come  that  he  might  touch  her 
once  again.  When  he  learned  the  reason  for  the 
visit,  he  laughed  reassuringly  and  swiftly  readjusted 
the  fallen  sounding-post.  Lena's  desire  overcame 
timidity.  Might  she  stay  to  hear  the  music? 

Might  she?  How  rare  in  human  experience  does 
the  aching  desire  of  two  so  closely  coincide,  so  that 
each  in  receiving  may  give.  On  and  on  the  old- 
timers  played.  Haydn,  D  major.  Exultation  held 
in  bonds  which  do  not  chafe.  "Joy  to  the  World !" 
Schubert,  a  simple  soul  overflowing  with  melody. 
A  humble  heart  made  just  a  trifle  happier  by  the 

138 


LENA 

clinging  hands  and  laughing  eyes  of  friendly  chil 
dren  than  it  was  saddened  by  the  ridicule  of  thought 
less  men  and  the  neglect  of  empty  women.  You 
know  how  Schubert's  theme  dips  like  a  flying  fish 
from  major  into  minor.  Beethoven,  and  Lena  was 
tense  and  swept  by  tonal  storms  which  urged  to 
stand  and  face  them,  head  thrown  back.  The  vio 
lins  sang,  the  viola  purred  electric  currents,  and  the 
'cello,  sobbing,  held  and  anchored  the  rest.  Never 
had  Lena  heard  such  music.  Snatches  of  the  melo 
dies  of  Pitts  Street,  single  violins  through  doors, 
but  never  had  she  dreamed  of  such  as  this.  She  sat 
like  a  statue,  scarcely  breathing,  and  the  old- 
timers  thrilled  and  spent  themselves.  Her  fervor 
was  contagious.  They  felt  obliged  to  do  their  best. 
They  would  have  played  the  night  for  one  swift 
touch  on  the  young  girl's  hair. 

At  the  end,  she  was  made  to  promise  she  would 
come  again.  Each  Tuesday  night  they  met  in  the 
alley  of  old-timers.  She  told  Adolph  of  her  lessons. 
Herr  Reinhardt?  An  old  friend  and  a  very  fine 
man.  She  would  do  well  and  she  must  work  hard. 

The  violin  which  Lena  carried  had  been  sought 
by  many.  Adolph  had  refused  two  hundred  dol 
lars,  and  the  landlord,  to  whom  he  owed  rent  at  the 

139 


INDELIBLE 

time,  approved  most  heartily.  His  landlord's  name 
was  Otto,  and  he  played  second  violin  each  Tues 
day  night.  They  all  approved  Lena  as  the  mistress 
of  that  lady  violin. 


PIPPINS 

LENA  left  the  alley  in  a  trance  and  started  back  to 
Green  Street.  She  was  not  nervous  at  night,  for 
she  had  often  traveled  back  and  forth  on  Pitts 
Street,  Music  was  unfolding  to  her.  Great  clouds 
were  rolling  and  opening  and  the  light  from  beyond 
was  glowing,  stronger  and  stronger. 

"Hello,  kid." 

Directly  in  front  of  her,  on  a  deserted  sidewalk 
by  a  Tremont  Street  burying-ground,  was  a  "  fresh 
guy/'  slightly  drunk.  Daytimes,  he  sold  Men's  and 
Youths'  Clothing  in  a  big  department  store. 

The  fresher  a  man  is  naturally,  the  worse  he 
holds  his  liquor. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  little  stroll,  eh?" 

Lena  recoiled  and  her  hand  flashed  quick  for  a 
hat-pin,  a  long  steel  shiny  hat-pin.  Lena  was  not 
exactly  afraid.  Her  dawning  womanhood  within 
her  shrank  from  eager  looks  of  men,  but  she  was  not 
quite  afraid.  Her  accoster  mistook  her  hesitation 
and  continued  his  oily  babble.  Her  eyes  were  hid 
den  from  his  by  shadows.  If  he  had  known  that 
she  was  surveying  his  flat  chest  and  ribs  for  a  spot 

141 


INDELIBLE 

where  there  was  no  button  or  fountain  pen,  he 
would  have  stopped  short. 

"  You  go  on  about  your  business  before  you  come 
to  grief.  I  know  your  like.  Shame  on  ye.'*  This 
from  an  Irish  voice  behind  her.  It  belonged  to  a 
middle-aged  man  named  Flynn,  a  teacher  at  the 
Conservatory. 

Lena  thanked  him  and  went  away,  the  spell  of 
the  music  broken. 

How  fortunate  Mr.  Flynn  happened  along  at  just 
that  moment !  How  fortunate  —  for  the  depend 
ent  relatives  of  that  young  man! 

WHEN  Lena  reached  home,  Mischa  was  lying  flat  on 
his  cot,  asleep.  Never  before  had  he  retired  until 
Lena  was  safely  in  dreamland.  The  girl  put  her 
violin  carefully  in  its  place  by  her  cot,  and  stood  be 
side  her  prostrate  father.  How  seamed  his  stolid 
face!  His  patience  did  not  leave  him,  even  in  sleep, 
but  how  tired  he  looked !  His  appetite,  she  remem 
bered,  had  been  sluggish  lately.  His  hands  trem 
bled  slightly  as  he  raised  a  soup  dish  to  his  mouth 
to  cool  it,  or  as  he  hung  a  coat  high  in  the  window. 
Poor  tired  father !  She  kissed  his  forehead  lightly 
142 


LENA 

and  woke  him  gently.  He  fell  back  once  or  twice 
before  he  could  sit  up  straight.  Lena  helped  him 
undress  and  watched  as  he  dozed  right  off  to  sleep 
again.  She  covered  a  crack  under  the  door  leading 
to  the  store  in  order  to  stop  a  possible  draft.  The 
windows,  of  course,  were  shut  tight  so  there  was  no 
trouble  from  that  quarter.  She  gave  her  violin  a 
final,  good-night  inspection  before  undressing.  As 
she  slipped  off  her  waist,  she  noticed  how  her 
breasts  were  growing  and  her  shoulders  rounding 
out,  and  she  was  pleased. 

Next  morning,  Mischa  lingered  in  bed  beyond 
his  usual  hour  and  ate  very  little  for  breakfast,  and 
when  Lena  returned  from  the  Conservatory  in  the 
afternoon,  he  asked  her  to  watch  the  store  so  he 
might  rest  awhile.  The  girl  was  depressed  all  night. 
She  could  not  shake  off  the  cloud  of  impending  dis 
aster.  Men  like  Mischa  do  not  rest  until  the  day  is 
done. 

For  three  nights  there  had  been  no  Pippin. 

Do  not  ridicule  a  Pippin,  or  a  Sheenie  getting  tired. 
Five-centers  and  hand-me-downs  have  their  uses 
and  leave  their  voids. 


PEARL  AND  OPAL 

PASSING  the  Revere  House  on  her  way  to  Green 
Street  late  one  afternoon,  Lena  met  her  school- 
friend,  Mary,  on  her  way  down  the  steps  from  the 
Grotto.  Mary  was  two  or  three  years  the  older 
and  had  been  christened  "Maria"  down  on  Pitts 
Street.  Her  beauty  was  warm  and  Neapolitan  and 
fully  developed.  Her  eyes  were  large,  the  tone  of  a 
wood  brook,  shaded  but  running  over  yellow  sand. 
Her  waist  was  supple  and  her  olive  bust  soft  and 
not  quite  visible  through  the  pink  "Cr6pe  de 
Chine."  Ribbons  of  undergarments  slipped  on  her 
shoulders.  Mary  Carbone  looked  ashamed,  and 
lowered  her  eyes  as  she  came  upon  Lena  that  after 
noon  by  the  Revere  House. 

They  walked  together  toward  Green  Street, 
pearl  and  opal  side  by  side,  and  Lena  told  of  the 
Conservatory,  her  lessons  and  her  violin,  the  cloth 
ing  store,  her  father.  Mary  told  of  her  father's  go 
ing  to  Italy  to  defend  his  native  land  against  its  an 
cient  enemy,  Austria,  of  her  mother's  illness,  and 

144 


LENA 

of  a  manager  of  a  Five-and-Ten  who  got  his  face 
slapped  for  him.  Mary  avoided  the  subject  of  her 
present  employment,  since  she  lost  the  Five-and- 
Ten  job,  but  as  she  stepped  over  a  high  curb,  her 
tight  skirt  lifted  and  revealed  a  folded  bill  or  two 
just  below  the  silken  knee. 

Olive  skin  shows  deep  beneath  pink  gauze  silk. 

Olive  skin  shows  clean  in  fine  silk  hose. 

Young  women  sway  and  laugh  as  they  balance 
high  purple-clustered  baskets  of  grapes.  .  .  . 

Grapes  are  not  as  happy  in  a  hothouse  as  in  a  vine 
yard,  but  they  grow,  after  a  fashion. 

THERE  were  many  things  Mary  did  not  talk  about. 
She  did  not  mention  that,  in  her  eleventh  year,  an 
other  little  girl,  whose  mother  was  also  busy  with 
the  younger  children,  had  taught  her  habits  de 
structive  to  sex  health  and  self-control.  She  did  not 
say  that  she  had  been  "picked  up*'  by  a  care-free 
young  student  with  an  automobile  and  that  his  first 
touch  had  set  her  blood  to  blazing.  She  omitted 
that  part  of  the  story  about  the  doctor  who  had 
"fixed  her  up,"  in  answer  to  her  tearful  prayers, 
and  who  would  not  take  her  paltry  dollars,  but 

145 


who  made  her  promise  to  come  and  see  him  often, 
which  she  did. 

There  are  many  other  things  Mary  would  never 
breathe  to  Lena,  for  Lena  is  a  good  girl. 


"OLOV  HASHOLOM" 

ONE  morning,  toward  the  end  of  Lena's  first  sum 
mer  recess,  Mischa  did  not  rise  at  all.  After  each 
attempt,  his  shoulders,  a  foot  or  two  above  the  cot, 
would  outweigh  the  strength  of  his  elbows  and  he 
would  sink  down  again  with  a  feeble  "Oi." 

Lena  hit  the  floor  like  a  panther,  with  a  flash  of 
bare  white  arms  and  limbs,  and  reached  his  bed 
side. 

"What's  the  matter,  father?" 

Nothing  was  the  matter,  except  that  he  could  n't 
sit  up.  She  brought  hot  broth  to  him  and  bathed 
his  head  and  pleaded  that  he  call  a  doctor.  No  doc 
tor  for  Mischa.  He  was  too  old  to  learn  new  tricks. 
He  would  rest  awhile.  Lena  tended  store  and 
missed  her  morning  practice  for  the  first  time.  She 
was  not  required  to  practice  in  summer,  but  she 
could  not  keep  her  fingers  from  the  beloved  instru 
ment.  She  hated  vacations.  She  felt  she  was  los 
ing  time. 

When  Mischa  refused  his  broth  at  noon,  Mrs.  A. 
Levinsky  was  called  in  and  she  bustled  and  clucked 
and  bathed  in  vain.  The  old  man  faded  rapidly, 

147 


INDELIBLE 

without  a  murmur  save  an  occasional  "Oi"  when 
his  iron  will  failed  to  move  his  body.  Lena  never 
left  his  bedside,  except  when  a  customer  came  in. 
At  night,  she  sat  silent  in  a  chair,  watching  her 
father's  face,  patient  as  ever,  but  how  tired.  The 
third  night,  she  dozed  in  spite  of  herself,  and  when 
she  woke  at  daybreak,  her  father  was  very  still. 
She  touched  his  forehead  and  cried  aloud  with  ter 
ror.  It  was  icy  cold.  She  tore  away  the  shabby 
bedclothes  and  listened  for  his  heart  and  breath. 
Not  a  sound. 

Palpitant  fear.  She  was  alone  with  a  corpse. 
She  feared  to  stay.  She  could  not  leave  it.  Then  a 
storm  of  frenzied  grief  swept  overboard  her  fear, 
and  sob  after  sob  hissed  over  her  like  waves  on 
black,  steep  rocks. 

A  dead,  bewildered  calm,  and  she  ran  for  Mrs. 
A.  Levinsky,  backing  out  the  door. 

THE  little  shop  was  closed,  and  in  the  rear  room, 
twelve  by  sixteen,  lay  Mischa  in  a  plain  pine  box, 
wrapped  naked  in  the  coarse  tachichim  (shroud), 
black-and-white  ceremonial  shawl  on  his  shoulders. 
A  fly  walked  up  and  down  his  prominent  nose, 
which  did  DO!  twitch.  The  lines  on  his  patient  face 

148 


LENA 

were  deep  and  many.  Even  his  whiskers  lay  per 
fectly  still. 

By  the  window,  Lena  sat  shoeless,  on  a  box,  try 
ing  to  blot  the  past  days  out  of  mind :  groping  des 
perately  for  some  means  to  turn  the  world  back  as 
she  had  always  known  it.  She  gazed  dully  at  the 
store,  and  could  see  no  way  in  which  it  could 
proceed  without  her  father.  The  Conservatory? 
It  was  impossible.  She  was  alone.  Alone.  How 
strange  that  a  girl  should  be  alone  with  people 
walking  all  over  Green  Street.  They  did  not  know 
how  near  a  corpse  they  were.  Hours  and  hours  of 
this.  Always  in  a  circle. 

Crowded  into  the  little  back  room  the  Minyon, 
ten  pious  Jews,  sat  with  her,  silent  for  the  most 
part,  now  and  then  breaking  into  dismal,  chant 
ing  moans.  There  were  no  flowers  nor  music,  and 
the  Rabbi  prayed  for  the  repose  of  Mischa's  soul, 
briefly,  and  to  the  point. 

The  plain  pine  box  was  covered  and  lifted  by  the 
men,  who  walked  bent-legged  with  it  through  the 
shop  to  a  shabby  wagon  and  slid  it  in.  One  of  them, 
in  edging  by  the  wooden  table,  knocked  a  half- 
used  box  of  Pippins  to  the  floor.  Some  of  them 
were  broken. 

149 


INDELIBLE 

So  M.  Borofsky  was  buried,  at  his  own  expense. 
His  face  did  not  change  during  the  entire  in 
cident. 

"  Olov  hasholom" 

FOR  seven  days,  sat  Lena  shoeless  on  the  box,  and 
each  morn  and  night,  the  Minyon  came  for  prayers. 
On  the  eighth  evening,  the  first  after  the  period  of 
mourning,  Martin  J.  Mahoney  walked  through  his 
ward,  taking  the  air.  Men  fawned  and  spoke  to 
him  conspicuously,  hoping  the  onlookers  would  no 
tice  it.  Wops  tipped  their  hats,  but  they  did  not 
fear  for  their  choicest  fruit.  That  goes  to  the  cops 
and  petty  thieves.  As  Martin  rounded  the  corner 
to  Green  Street,  he  heard  a  girl's  wild  sobs  rising 
almost  to  hysteria.  A  second-hand  shop  door  was 
open.  He  looked  in.  At  first  he  thought  it  empty, 
but  a  flood  of  raven  hair  on  white  arms  by  the 
counter  caught  his  eye  hi  the  twilight. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Martin's  bulldog  jaw 
shot  out  as  he  took  the  initiative  in  this,  as  in  other 
matters.  Lena  was  startled  and  frightened,  until 
she  looked  at  Martin's  eyes.  Martin  is  a  man  be 
side  whom  timid  women  sit  in  a  street-car  seat 
without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

150 


LENA 

"My  father's  dead,"  she  said  simply,  reverting 
to  one  of  her  sudden  fits  of  frightful  calm.  Martin 
saw  the  name  on  the  door,  then  the  violin  case  on 
the  counter,  and  the  incident  of  the  license  flashed 
back  to  him.  Is  n't  it  strange  that  a  man  with  such 
a  memory  now  and  then  forgets  a  financial  trans 
action  involving  large  sums  of  money? 

"  Your  name  Lena?  "  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Don't  you  worry,"  he  said.  "Ain't  you  got 
relatives?  Where  are  they  ?  Do  they  live  in  this 
ward?" 

"No,"  said  Lena.  Then  Mrs.  A.  Levinsky  came 
in,  wrung  her  hands  and  curtsied,  and  Martin  with 
drew. 

He  went  straight  to  the  Herricks  Club,  took  off 
his  coat,  grabbed  a  toothpick,  and  sat  at  his  desk. 
Bang  went  his  heavy  fist.  In  came  Mike,  of  the 
loud  vest. 

"Send  for  Levine." 

A  JEW,  looking  prosperous  but  quite  worried,  was 
ushered  in,  half  an  hour  later.  Men  who  spent 
years  in  old  Russia  tremble  when  they  are  sent  for. 
It  is  a  habit. 

151 


INDELIBLE 

"What  about  Borofsky's  daughter,  eh?" 

They  talked  a  half  an  hour,  although  the  State 
primaries  were  close  at  hand  and  there  were  three 
newspaper-men  waiting  outside.  Mischa's  store 
was  doing  well.  It  could  be  sold  out  for  a  couple  of 
thousand.  There  was  fifteen  hundred  in  the  tin 
tobacco  boxes. 

"Can  the  girl  play  scripchur,  or  whatever  you 
call  it?" 

"  She  went  one  year  by  the  Conservatory." 

"She  ought  to  finish.  You  go  ahead  and  fix 
things  up,  and  if  you  need  any  money,  let  me  know. 
Understand?" 

The  "understand"  carried  force  enough  to  blow 
off  a  hat,  and  Levine  dodged. 

"I  am  not  a  rich  man,"  he  demurred,  "but  we 
will  see  that  unser  Landsleut  do  not  want.  She 
shall  play  scripka." 

BOSTON  newspapers,  a  week  later,  were  topped 
with  indignant  headlines  and  scathing  editorials. 
The  Australian  ballot  had  been  debauched.  The 
spirit  and  letter  of  the  election  laws  had  been  vio 
lated.  An  anti-organization  Republican  candidate 
for  lieutenant-governor  had  slipped  in. 

152 


LENA 

Martin  J.  Mahoney's  Democratic  ward  had  sud 
denly  turned  Republican  in  the  primary  election, 
and  almost  every  vote  had  been  cast  for  this  dark 
horse  who  so  disturbed  "the  party"  leaders  and 
press. 

It  was  said  that  by  fair  means  and  foul,  in  de 
fiance  of  all  decency,  honesty,  and  uprightness, 
Martin  had  delivered  his  ward,  So  he  had.  Shame 
on  him! 


PART  III:  ERASERS 


FART  III:  ERASERS 
"THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND" 

Dwelling-houses  mourn  for  their  dead  women. 

Walls  cry  out  and  wounds  appear  from  rims  of 
chairs  tipped  back.  Pictures  hang  askew. 

Gloomy  thoughts  form  cobwebs  in  the  corners. 
Heavy  thoughts  are  dust-rolls  under  rugs.  Grief 
makes  brown  stains  on  the  silver,  black  malignant 
rash  upon  the  brass.  Shutters  Jlap  down  limp  be 
cause  the  joints  are  tired. 

Snapping  nails  on  frosty  nights  are  memories. 

Dusty  wings  on  stifling  nights  are  regrets,  boring 
and  eating  something  in  the  closets.  Something  never 
to  be  worn  again. 

Household  vessels  overflow  with  sorrow.  Brown 
clots  on  the  coffee-pot,  sticky  streaks  on  the  molasses- 
jug.  Hear  the  drip,  drip  of  the  faucet  and  the  angry 
crunch  of  sugar  under  footsteps. 

Chairs  have  deepest  shadows  and  their  arms  reach 
out  for  something,  always  calling  something  in  the 
dusk. . . .  What  starts  that  rocker  gently  moving? 

God!  How  dwelling-house*  mourn  for  dear,  dead 
women! 

157 


INDELIBLE 

THE  Graydon  House  in  Cliftondale. 

I  hear  father  tossing  in  his  lonely  room.  The 
rusty  bed-springs  squeak  as  he  rolls,  side  to  side, 
back  again,  goading  the  poor  old  man.  Now  he  is 
sobbing  to  himself.  Sobbing  in  the  night.  All  I 
can  do  is  hide  my  head  beneath  the  pillows  or 
I  must  sob  myself. 

Since  mother  died,  father  has  grown  ten  years 
older.  His  head  droops  as  he  pours  water  in  the 
shaking  coffee-pot  and  sloshes  it  around. 

"Have  some,  Sam,  my  boy?" 

Quite  often,  Miss  Stoddard  comes  over  in  the 
evening  to  play  "seven-up"  with  him.  She  calls 
him  "Alec"  and  slaps  the  cards  down  like  a  man. 
Her  head  shakes  more,  late  in  the  evening,  and  I 
know  she  must  be  sleepy,  but  she  sticks  it  out  till 
father  gets  drowsy  and  then  she  says  "Good 
night,"  short,  like  a  man.  They  pull  the  cur 
tains  down  tight,  since  the  night  the  Social 
Circle  met  at  Mrs.  Hale's  next  door  and  old 
lady  Tomlinson  stopped  on  her  way  home  to  see 
if  there  was  anything  she  could  do.  Father 
looked  cross  and  said,  "No,  thank  you,"  and 
Miss  Stoddard  looked  sweet  and  asked  her  if  she 
cared  to  take  a  hand. 

158 


ERASERS 

Mrs.  Tomlinson  has  a  face  just  like  the  Queen 
of  Clubs. 

The  church-women  are  horrified  because  Miss 
Stoddard  plays  cards,  but  father  sleeps  better  on 
the  nights  she  plays  with  him.  Fred  Eldridge  comes 
in  sometimes  and  smokes  and  talks,  but  Bill  Milli- 
ken's  wife  will  not  let  him  out  at  night. 

Every  morning  early,  father  drives  to  Faulkner 
for  the  papers  and  he  plods  around  his  carpet  shop 
all  day.  But  his  head  droops  as  it  does  when  he 
stirs  the  coffee-pot  and  he  looks  ten  years  older 
than  he  did  before  mother  had  a  shock  and  died. 

I  AM  busy  all  the  time,  daytimes,  at  the  Conserv 
atory  and  with  my  practicing.  Then  I  get  the 
meals  sometimes,  and  wash  the  dishes  every 
once  in  a  while,  and  I  sit  and  smoke  and  talk  to 
father  in  the  evenings.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
shovel  paths  and  clean  the  ashes  out  of  the  cel 
lar  and  keep  the  place  fixed  up,  but  somehow,  I 
never  find  the  time. 

THE  first  Sunday  after  mother  was  buried,  father 
sat  around  until  he  heard  the  church  bell.  Then  he 
arose  slowly  and  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes.  We 

159 


INDELIBLE 

walked  to  church  without  saying  a  word.  After 
meeting,  Reverend  Babson  stood  in  front  of  us  and 
said  we  should  bear  our  burdens  bravely  and  al 
ways  remember  the  dear  departed  sister  had  gone 
to  her  just  reward,  for  she  lived  a  godly  life;  and 
the  women  came  and  said  how  lonesome  it  must  be 
and  how  strange  the  pew  looked  without  mother, 
and  the  ones  who  had  lost  somebody  within  ten 
years  or  so  began  to  sniffle. 

One  of  the  women  said,  "Poor  Ellen  is  all  right. 
It  is  the  ones  left  behind  who  have  to  suffer." 

"Well,  we've  suffered  all  we  are  equal  to  for  one 
morning,  so  let's  go  home,"  I  said,  mad  as  could  be. 
There  is  nothing  those  old  crowbaits  like  so  well  as 
being  afflicted. 

I  grabbed  father's  arm  and  walked  him  out,  and 
the  next  Sunday  father  said  he  guessed  he'd  go  out 
in  the  barn  and  clean  the  harness.  Daisy  is  still 
alive,  but  she  is  so  fat  and  lazy  that  it  takes  her 
half  the  day  to  get  to  Melrose  and  back.  She  is  get 
ting  meaner  every  day,  like  most  members  of  the 
weaker  sex.  In  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Gott  stuck  her 
head  in,  to  see  if  we  was  sick,  and  Reverend  Eze- 
kiel  Babson  called  next  night  and  found  father  and 
Fred  Eldridge  smoking  and  talking  politics,  and 

160 


ERASERS 

he  said  he  hoped  we  would  not  forget  our  duty  as 
Christians,  and  father  got  madder  than  I  ever  saw 
him  and  said  he  hoped  the  Foolkfller  would  buck 
up  also  and  tend  to  his  job  right. 


TECHNIQUE 

WHAT  would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  sit  down  and 
play  real  music  on  the  piano,  but  Mr.  Flynn  made 
me  promise  I  would  stick  to  technical  stuff  through 
another  term.  It  is  nothing  but  studies  and  exer 
cises,  day  after  day,  and  I  get  so  tired  of  listening 
to  that  metronome  go  "Ick,  Ock,  Ick,  Ock,"  that 
I  would  like  to  throw  it  away.  But  I  am  happy 
sometimes,  when  I  take  the  scale  of  C  and  set  the 
metronome  as  fast  as  it  will  go,  and  rip  it  up  from 
one  end  of  the  keyboard  to  the  other  and  back 
again,  ten  times  without  a  single  slip.  I  can  play 
loud  and  deep  and  harsh  and  soft  and  quiet,  and 
you  have  no  idea  how  many  ways  there  are  to  play 
a  scale.  I  try  to  see  how  many  different  kinds  of 
tone  I  can  get. 

The  deacon  thought  I  was  stuck  up  because  I 
would  not  play  at  the  church  concert  following  a 
bean  supper,  so  I  told  them  to  take  their  church 
piano  and  welcome.  I  have  an  upright  of  my  own 
that  has  good  tone  and  action,  and  I  practice  ten 
hours  a  week  at  the  Conservatory  on  a  concert 
grand.  I  have  to  wear  stronger  glasses  now  and 

162 


ERASERS 

they  make  me  look  like  lehabod  Crane's  nephew  f 
if  he  had  one.  When  I  tear  loose  from  scales  and 
exercises,  you  watch  the  keys  fly. 

Mr.  Flynn  called  in  a  funny,  black-haired  man 
the  other  day  and  had  me  play  a  couple  of  Lesche- 
titzky  studies.  One  was  legato  octaves  and  sounded 
like  a  gang  of  men,  four  abreast,  carrying  railroad 
ties  on  their  shoulders.  The  other  was  staccato,  like 
tiny  puffs  of  grease  on  a  red-hot  stove.  The  black- 
haired  man  was  Signer  Grazzoni,  an  Italian,  and 
Mr.  Flynn  said  I  was  going  to  have  him  for  a 
teacher. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  me  boy,"  he  said,  "but  you 
ought  to  go  far  beyond  what  I  can  do  for  you.  You 
are  over  the  hardest  part  of  the  road,  but  you  must 
keep  on." 

I  shall  go  to  the  bughouse  if  I  don't  get  a  chance 
to  play  something  pretty  soon.  I  study  harmony 
and  composition  with  another  teacher,  and  I  like  it 
so  well  it  makes  me  more  impatient  with  technics. 
Playing  the  piano  is  only  one  tenth  of  what  you 
have  to  learn  at  the  Conservatory,  in  order  to  be 
a  musician.  The  first  chords  we  studied  were  the 
three  I  learned  on  the  zither  from  Old  Bill  Milli- 
ken.  They  are  called  the  tonic,  the  sub-dominant, 

163 


INDELIBLE 

and  the  dominant.  Chords  are  the  best  part  of 
music. 

HAZEL  was  home  over  the  week-end,  but  I  don't 
care  much  for  her  now.  She  left  high  school  to  go 
on  the  vaudeville  stage,  and  she  talks  about  the 
"profesh"  all  the  time  and  makes  fun  of  my  ex 
ercises.  She  says  I  ought  to  go  out  and  play  for 
money  because  I  can  give  cards  and  spades  to  some 
of  the  "hicks"  she  runs  up  against  on  the  "small 
time." 

Damn  a  girl  who  laughs  when  you  kiss  her. 

WELL,  I  got  to  wash  dishes  at  last  or  we  won't  have 
any  left  for  supper. 


VIOLIN  AND  PIANO 

THE  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world  is  studying  vio 
lin  at  the  Conservatory.  Her  name  is  Lena  Borof- 
sky.  Lena  has  black  eyes  with  long  lashes  and 
great  coils  of  hair  that  love  to  wrap  themselves 
around  her  head.  Her  hair  looks  black,  but  indigo 
lights  flash  through  when  she  passes  a  window. 
Her  lips  are  small,  but  so  red  I  am  afraid  to  see 
them  near  her  sharp  white  teeth. 

The  advanced  piano  students  and  the  violin  stu 
dents  have  been  assigned  partners  to  learn  to  play 
together,  and  Signer  Grazzoni  selected  me  to  play 
for  Lena.  I  shall  always  love  him  for  that,  although 
his  whiskers  smell  garlic,  his  breath  smells  cloves, 
and  his  hair  smells  fleur  de  lis. 

Lena  is  the  best  of  the  violin  students,  and  the 
teachers  all  think  she  will  be  famous.  She  plays 
so  fiercely  that  it  frightens  me  sometimes,  and  then 
conies  an  adagio  as  if  the  landslide  had  stopped 
short  at  the  shore  of  a  mountain  lake  at  sunrise.  It 
makes  me  shiver  every  time  she  touches  the  G 
string.  I  know  she  likes  to  have  me  play  with  her, 
although  we  have  not  said  much  to  one  another 

165 


INDELIBLE 

as  yet.  There  are  phrases  in  music,  like  the  sub 
jects  and  predicates  of  sentences,  only  much  more 
lovely.  Often  a  violin  phrase  asks  a  question,  and 
,the  piano  answers  back,  and  when  I  answer  her, 
she  turns  her  head  a  bit  and  smiles  with  her 
eyes. 

One  afternoon,  I  managed  to  do  what  I  had  tried 
many  times  before.  I  asked  Lena  if  she  would  like 
to  go  to  Nantasket  with  me.  She  blushed  a  little, 
and  finally  said  she  would.  I  did  n't  see  the  harbor 
at  all,  only  the  sunlight  rippling  back  and  forth 
from  Lena  to  the  water.  We  walked  up  and  down 
the  sand  and  watched  the  waves  roll  in.  How  hard 
the  water  tried  to  catch  those  twinkling  little  heels 
of  hers.  Then  we  had  a  supper  called  a  "Shore 
Dinner"  which  was  mostly  clam  shells  and  fish 
and  stewed  milk. 

Lena  is  a  quiet  girl  and  never  giggles,  only 
smiles.  After  supper  we  went  back  to  the  beach  and 
the  inky  water  began  to  bob  up  little  silver  trian 
gles  as  the  moon  rose.  All  of  a  sudden,  Lena  started 
to  cry  softly,  and  I  put  my  arm  around  her  and 
told  her  not  to  worry.  She  sobbed  and  then  told  me 
she  missed  her  father,  olov  hasJiolom,  who  was  dead. 
I  told  her  about  mother  and  the  dishes  and  father 

166 


ERASERS 

crying  half  the  night.  We  talked  so  long  we  almost 
missed  the  last  boat. 

She  lives  in  a  funny  little  street  back  of  the 
State  House  with  an  Italian  girl  named  Mary. 
When  she  went  in,  I  did  n't  make  a  move  to  kiss 
her,  although  I  like  her  better  than  any  girl  I  ever 
saw.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  makes  the  difference 
between  Lena  and  the  Cliftondale  girls  unless  you 
can  tell  me  how  you  feel  when  you  hear  Grieg's 
music  of  the  northern  lights. 

What  can  she  see  in  such  a  homely-looking 
gazabo  as  I  am? 

Miss  STOOD ARD  has  given  me  a  book  to  read  called 
"Ivanhoe,"  but  I  do  not  like  it.  Ivanhoe,  the  big 
fathead,  after  being  made  Queen  of  the  May,  did 
not  marry  Rebecca,  the  Jewess,  because  she  was  a 
Jew. 

Some  of  the  girls  at  the  Conservatory  hate  Jews 
and  make  remarks  about  Lena  on  account  of  her 
clothes.  Anybody  can  see  that  they  are  jealous. 
Lena  wears  a  tight  plaid  skirt  with  a  little  slit 
in  the  side,  and  high  heels.  I  love  to  watch  her 
hands,  which  move  like  birds.  They  are  white 
and  soft,  but  her  arm  is  firm,  and  she  plays  as 

167 


INDELIBLE 

if  she  were  quite  sure  of  herself.  Her  violin  is  a 
beauty,  and  all  the  artists  who  visit  the  Conserv 
atory  look  at  it  and  would  like  to  take  it  away 
with  them. 


NOT  MUCH  FOR  LOOKS 

I  AM  the  talk  of  the  Conservatory. 

Maude  Spaulding,  the  great  violinist,  gave  a  re 
cital  in  the  Conservatory  Hall  for  the  students.  I 
asked  Lena  to  sit  with  me.  The  afternoon  before 
the  concert,  Mr.  Flynn  telephoned  that  he  had  ton 
sillitis  and  could  not  play  the  accompaniments.  He 
told  them  that  I  could  do  it  just  as  well.  I  never 
was  so  excited  in  my  life.  I  practiced  all  afternoon, 
and  every  time  there  was  a  difficult  running  pas 
sage,  I  was  thankful  for  my  technique.  After  going 
over  the  programme,  I  knew  I  could  play  the  notes 
all  right.  But  the  notes  are  not  all  there  is  to  music. 
How  about  the  interpretation?  You  think  all  an 
accompanist  has  to  do  is  to  follow,  but  where  would 
you  be  when  you  had  to  answer  a  phrase  all  by 
yourself  and  make  a  contrast  for  the  soloist? 

Miss  Spaulding  was  worried  because  Mr.  Flynn 
could  not  come,  and  she  did  not  like  the  idea  of  a 
student  for  an  accompanist.  Signer  Grazzoni  said 
he  would  be  honored  to  play  himself,  but  I  guess  he 
saw  my  face  fall,  and  he  added  that,  if  Miss  Spauld- 

169 


INDELIBLE 

fng  would  be  so  kind,  perhaps  she  would  try  one  of 
the  numbers  with  me  and  see  if  I  was  satisfactory 
to  her.  I  don't  blame  her  because  I  am  not  much 
for  looks.  You  would  take  me  for  a  flute-player  if 
you  did  n't  know  better. 

Maude  opened  to  a  set  of  Variations  by  Spohr. 
When  she  played  the  first  introductory  note,  she' 
swung  me  right  into  the  beat  and  I  could  n't  have 
made  a  mistake  if  I  had  tried.  That  is  a  funny 
thing  about  accompanying.  The  worse  the  soloist 
is,  the  harder  it  is  to  play  with  them.  There  were 
little  trills  and  shadings  I  had  never  noticed  before, 
but  when  the  passage  came  where  the  piano  took 
the  ah*  and  the  violin  played  scrolls  around  it,  I 
brought  the  tone  right  out  and  phrased  it  just  a 
little  more  pronounced  than  she  had  done. 

What  do  you  think?  She  begged  my  pardon  for 
being  rude  to  me  and  said  she  did  not  know  I  was 
an  Artist.  An  Artist,  she  said.  She  told  me  she 
would  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  me  for  an  accom 
panist. 

The  stage  was  lighted  brightly  and  the  rest  of  the 
hall  was  dark,  so  I  could  not  see  out  in  front,  but  I 
knew  Lena  was  there,  as  I  could  feel  her  eyes.  The 
worst  part  was  getting  on  and  oft  the  stage.  I 

170 


ERASERS 

stumbled  once,  and  was  so  scared  I  trembled  until 
Miss  Spaulding  raised  her  violin. 

After  it  was  over,  I  walked  home  with  Lena  and 
Mary  and  we  did  not  say  a  single  word,  but  Lena 
put  her  hand  on  my  arm  and  pressed  it  as  we  came 
near  her  door.  I  catch  my  breath  every  time  she 
touches  me, 

WHILE  our  harmony  class  was  waiting  to  get 
started,  we  had  an  argument  over  the  length  of  the 
term  of  a  Congressman.  I  thought  it  was  for  seven 
years,  but  others  said  it  was  only  four.  Lena  spoke 
right  up  and  told  us.  She  knows  all  about  the  gov 
ernment. 

"It  takes  a  foreigner  to  tell  us  all  about  our 
selves,"  Pauline  Blatchford  said. 

Lena's  eyes  blazed,  and  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  tear  that  girl's  throat.  "  I  am  a  better  American 
than  you  are,"  she  said,  and  Pauline  got  red.  Lena 
thinks  the  United  States  should  go  to  war  because 
the  Lusitania  was  sunk. 

WAR  is  about  all  we  hear  nowadays. 


TOLERANCE 

THE  Protestants  and  Catholics  in  Cliftondale  are 
beginning  to  tolerate  each  other.  Fred  Eldridge 
made  a  great  speech  in  the  town  hall  last  night,  and 
although  he  said  almost  exactly  what  the  Rever 
end  Howard  Talbot,  D.D.,  got  fired  for,  the  people 
all  clapped  and  cheered. 

Frank  Wilson's  brother,  Jim,  got  married,  and 
some  of  the  women  said  he  did  it  just  because  he 
was  afraid  of  the  draft  law  being  passed.  Old  Lady 
Tomlinson  thinks  it  is  for  another  reason,  which  no 
decent  woman  should  let  pass  her  lips,  but  they 
should  see  in  a  few  months.  Marriages  in  Clifton- 
dale  are  not  made  in  Heaven.  Marriage  of  any 
kind  is  hard  to  explain  when  you  see  some  of  the 
old  buzzards  in  this  town. 

The  speech  was  on  Patriotism.   Fred  said  that 
the  world  looked  to  us  for  the  safety  of  Democracy 
and  the  downfall  of  the  ferocious  Hun  at  our  gates. 
The  time  has  come  to  put  aside  our  petty  differ 
ences,  he  said.   There  must  be  no  division  in  our  i 
midst.  There  must  be  no  distinction  between  Amer-  ; 
icans.    Religious  and  political  barriers  must  be 

172 


ERASERS 

swept  away  by  the  tide  of  a  common  cause,  so  thai 
the  united  hosts  of  freedom  may  march  shoulder  to 
shoulder  down  the  straight  and  narrow  path  to  vic 
tory.  He  said  the  administration  should  be  for 
gotten,  and  nothing  said  about  its  criminal  waste 
arid  extravagance  and  inefficiency,  and  its  vacillat 
ing  foreign  policy  which  has  made  us  the  laughing 
stock  of  Europe. 

We  must  bury  the  hatchet  till  the  last  gun  is 
fired. 


THE  STEEL  ERASER 

SIGNOR  GRAZZONI  is  heartbroken,  and  so  are  al 
most  all  the  good  musicians  at  the  Conservatory. 
I  was  there  when  it  happened. 

The  Signor  was  so  excited  over  his  Italian  paper 
which  said  the  Italians  were  being  swept  back  on 
the  Austrian  front,  that  the  Germans  were  killing 
the  prisoners  as  they  advanced. 

"Pigs!  Barbarians!  Murderers!  Every  German 
is  a  damned  dog!"  he  yelled,  and  tore  his  hair  and 
waved  his  arms. 

Then  I  got  red  as  a  beet,  for  there  was  old  Herr 
Reinhardt,  Lena's  violin  teacher,  standing  very 
still  and  white  at  the  door.  Tears  rolled  down  his 
cheek,  and  he  came  slowly  over  to  Signor  and 
shook  his  old  fist  in  the  Italian's  face. 

"This  iss  not  true.  My  countrymen  are  lied 
about.  England  has  driven  them  to  fight  for  their 
food.  They  bleed  when  they  are  shot  as  well  as 
your  people,  and  they  are  not  dogs." 

Signor  started  to  wave  the  paper  and  talk  presto 
agitato,  FF,  and  then  Mr.  Flynn  came  in  and  put 
his  hands  on  their  shoulders. 

174 


ERASERS 

"Don't  forget  our  sacred  calling,  old  friends,"  he 
said.  I  love  his  brogue.  "  Music  is  not  a  thing  for 
nations  to  soil.  It  is  beyond  the  greed  and  avarice 
of  races.  We  are  the  prophets  of  the  higher,  univer 
sal  things.  We  have  the  voice  all  people  under 
stand,  the  art  which  stirs  the  good  and  shames  the 
sinful. 

"God  only  knows  what  this  butchering  will 
come  to,  but  He  will  punish  the  guilty,  never  fear. 
We  have  work  to  do,  my  friends.  We  must  inspire 
the  timid,  calm  the  hasty,  comfort  the  lonely,  and 
lift  up  the  sad.  We  must  din  the  voice  of  Heaven 
constantly  into  the  ears  of  these  madmen,  till  they 
have  to  listen.  Now,  shake  hands,  my  friends.  I 
know  how  easy  it  is  to  be  rash,  for  how  often  I 
think  of  my  own  poor  suffering  people." 

Signer  Grazzoni's  Italian  became  dolcissimo,  and 
Herr  Reinhardt  sat  down  on  the  piano  bench  and 
buried  his  face. 

"They  are  driving  my  poor  boy  Ludwig  into  the 
bayonets  and  bullets  somewhere  in  that  battle 
field.  Poor  little  Ludwig." 

Then  a  girl  came  in  with  a  letter  for  the  Signer 
from  the  Italian  Government.  I  felt  queer  the 
minute  I  saw  it.  He  yelled  as  if  he  had  been 

175 


INDELIBLE 

stabbed,  and  threw  himself  down  on  his  knees  by 
the  window,  banging  his  head  on  the  sill  and  cry 
ing,  "Luigi!  Luigi!"  Up  went  Herr  Reinhardt's 
head  and  he  knelt  beside  him,  his  arm  around  his 
shoulder,  sobbing,  too. 

Mr.  Flynn  beckoned  me  and  we  tiptoed  out,  and 
then  Mr.  Flynn  almost  lost  his  temper.  A  band 
marched  by. 

"It  is  a  dastardly  thing  to  lure  men  to  blood  and 
poison  with  the  purest  of  all  things.  I  hate  a  mili 
tary  band,"  he  said. 

THAT  night,  I  told  Lena  what  had  happened,  and 
she  flared  up  and  said  the  Germans  should  be  cut 
down,  to  a  man.  That  angered  me,  and  I  asked  her 
how  about  Herr  Reinhardt,  her  teacher,  and  Herr 
Kugel,  who  loves  her  like  a  father.  She  turned 
white  and  very  thoughtful,  but  she  said,  after  a 
while,  that  our  Country's  call  should  be  first,  above 
everything,  and  that  red-blooded  men  should  set 
aside  other  things. 

I  knew  what  she  meant,  because  I  am  tall  for  my 
age.  It  hurt  me. 

"All  right,  Lena,  I  will  join  the  navy.  Good 
bye." 

176 


ERASERS 

Then  what  do  you  think  happened!  She  burst 
out  crying  and  held  my  coat,  and  said  she  did  n't 
mean  it,  but  it  was  too  late  to  let  her  think  I  was  a 
sissie.  I  took  both  her  hands  and  kissed  them  and 
said  "Good-bye." 

There  was  a  recruiting  station  on  Bromfield 
Street,  and  I  went  there  the  first  thing  next  morn 
ing.  I  did  n't  have  the  nerve  to  tell  father.  A  man 
with  clothes  like  an  elevator  man  in  a  swell  hotel 
asked  me  a  lot  of  impertinent  questions  and  said  to 
the  doctor  in  the  back  room, 

"There's  a  long  drink  of  water  out  here  that 
wants  to  take  a  cruise.' 

"  Send  him  in,"  said  a  voice.  I  knew  by  the  sound 
of  it  that  the  doctor  was  in  uniform,  too. 

Is  n't  it  strange  how  fresh  a  uniform  makes  a 
man? 

He  took  off  my  glasses  and  looked  through  them 
and  then  he  put  a  card  upon  the  wall  and  asked 
me  to  read  it.  Of  course,  I  could  n't  without  my 
glasses. 

"You  can't  get  in,"  he  says.  "The  supply  de 
partment  is  the  only  one  where  you  don't  need 
any  eyesight  and  they  are  full  up.  Tough  luck." 

I  don't  know  about  that  last  part  of  it.  I  did  n't 
177 


INDELIBLE 

know  what  to  say  to  Lena,  but  it  was  past  time  for 
my  lesson,  so  I  hurried  to  the  Conservatory  and 
found  Lena  and  Mr.  Flynn  excited  as  could  be. 
They  both  ran  down  the  hall  to  meet  me  and  said, 
"You  have  n't  enlisted?" 

"No,  the  doctor  turned  me  down  on  account  of 
my  eyesight." 

"Gott  sei  dank,"  said  Lena,  whatever  that 
means. 

Now  it  is  all  over,  I  am  sure  I  did  right,  and  I 
would  do  it  again  if  my  Country  called. 


MARY 

WHY  has  America  no  music  of  its  own?  The  Ger 
mans,  that  is,  the  old  ones,  all  love  music  and  their 
composers.  Bach,  with  his  patterns  interlaced  and 
woven  like  the  smooth- washed  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
large  ones  rolling  slowly  and  firmly,  the  middle  ones 
tumbling  over  and  around  them,  and  tiny  ones 
scurrying  and  bouncing  over  them  all;  Beethoven 
with  his  wind  roaring  through  bent  tree-tops,  and 
the  surging  of  angry  rivers,  caving  and  crumbling 
the  banks  and  changing  color  with  each  swollen 
brook;  Schubert,  with  his  songs,  fresh  every  morn 
ing;  Schumann,  with  his  moods  and  twilights  and 
questions.  The  Russians  are  deep  and  overcome 
with  sadness  of  bare,  wind-swept  plains,  and  dark, 
lonely  forests,  and  a  smoldering  volcano  of  human 
sorrow  always  strong  underneath  —  always  out  of 
reach.  Italians  are  warm  and  glad  as  blue  skies  on 
early  autumn  afternoon  or  silver  mirrors  of  moon 
light  on  the  poplars. 

I  have  been  studying  Chopin  lately.   He  was  a 
Pole  who  lived  in  France;  "the  poet  of  the  piano," 

179 


INDELIBLE 

Mr.  Flynn  calls  him.  Chopin  plays  with  tints  and 
shades  awhile  before  he  floods  the  room  with 
bursts  of  gorgeous  colors.  He  is  melancholy,  but 
never  gloomy.  Grieg  sings  the  sea  lapping  cold  in 
icy  fjords  and  caverns,  the  northern  lights  and 
dwarfs  dancing  in  the  cold  morning  colors. 

I  wonder  why  the  soft  snow  clinging  to  the  black 
branches  in  the  Common,  the  creak  of  feet  on  hard 
snow,  the  Indian  summer  haze,  the  roaring  of  win 
ter  waves  at  Winthrop,  or  the  old  four-masted 
schooners  coming  through  the  fog  and  salt  air,  do 
not  make  themes  as  fresh  and  terrible  as  the  ones 
from  overseas. 

These  thoughts  came  to  me  the  other  afternoon, 
as  I  walked  beside  Lena  through  the  Public  Gar 
den.  Lena  is  the  pride  of  all  the  teachers  and  they 
always  talk  of  her  to  the  visiting  artists.  Gabrilo- 
witch  played  at  Symphony  Hall  the  other  night, 
but  he  played  for  us  at  the  Conservatory  a  while 
in  the  afternoon.  I  thought  I  had  studied  Bee 
thoven's  Sonata  in  A,  but  I  changed  my  mind  when 
he  played  it.  He  also  played  a  piece  called  "Claire 
de  Lune,"  by  Debussy,  and  it  left  me  all  bewildered. 
There  were  strange,  new  chords  that  never  seemed 
to  come  to  rest  and  pale,  weird  light  gleaming 

180 


ERASERS 

through.  When  Gabrilo witch  touches  a  note,  there 
is  nothing  to  describe  it,  unless  it  is  a  drop  of  liq 
uid  gold.  After  his  recital,  he  was  talking  to  Sig- 
nor  Grazzoni  in  the  hall,  and  I  heard  him  say, 

"Miss  Spaulding  said  you  had  a  promising 
young  man  here." 

"There  he  is,"  said  Signer,  and  he  asked  me  to 
come  and  meet  Gabrilowitch.  I  almost  fell  over  my 
feet  getting  up  to  him,  but  he  held  out  his  hand, 
and  such  a  hand.  I  bet  he  could  tear  off  half  the 
keys  if  he  felt  like  it. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Graydon,"  he  said,  very 
carefully. 

It  took  me  off  my  feet.  I  did  n't  think  artists 
like  him  said  just  plain  "How  do  you  do."  I  said 
something,  but  I  don't  remember  what.  I  have 
a  feeling,  though,  that  it  was  not  the  thing  to  say 
under  the  circumstances. 

Walking  home  with  Lena,  the  city  never  looked 
so  bright  and  beautiful.  I  am  thinking  more  and 
more  of  beautiful  things.  I  must  be  developing 
temperament.  Lena  was  very  quiet  and  had  noth 
ing  to  say,  but  I  could  see  something  was  on  her 
mind.  She  walked  with  her  hand  on  my  arm.  At 
last  she  found  her  voice. 

181 


INDELIBLE 

"Samuel,  Mary  is  breaking  her  heart." 

"What  for?"  I  asked. 

"I  ought  not  to  tell  you,"  she  replied;  and  then, 
after  a  minute,  she  told  me  how  Mary  had  been  led 
astray  and  had  gone  into  the  Revere  House  while 
her  mother  was  sick,  because  she  did  not  care  what 
happened  to  her.  I  never  would  have  thought  it  of 
Mary.  I  went  into  the  Revere  House  once,  and  the 
girls,  most  of  them,  had  painted  faces  and  harsh 
voices  and  drank  beer  and  whiskey.  The  men  were 
mostly  drunk,  and  either  fat  with  puffy  eyelids,  or 
young  and  fresh  and  noisy.  I  could  n't  think  of 
Mary  with  those  men.  Lena  said  Mary's  mother 
died  just  about  the  time  her  father,  olov  hasholom, 
passed  away  and  then  Mary  got  a  respectable  job 
and  left  the  cafes  and  Lena  went  to  room  with  her. 
Now  Mary  is  in  love  with  a  young  Italian,  a  bar 
ber,  who  is  very  jealous. 

Mary  is  a  Catholic,  and  told  the  priest  all  her 
sins  and  he  forgave  her,  only  he  said  he  thought 
she  ought  not  to  marry  Pietro  unless  she  told  him 
her  past.  Mary  is  afraid  to  tell  him,  and  is  very 
unhappy,  Lena  said. 

I  did  n't  know  what  to  say,  because  the  past  and 
future  can't  be  helped,  but  at  last  I  looked  at  Lena 

182 


ERASERS 

and  said,  "I  would  n't  care  if  you  had  murdered 
somebody." 

She  blushed  and  kept  her  eyes  down,  but  she 
did  n't  take  her  hand  from  my  arm  and  after  a 
while  she  said, 

"Would  n't  you,  Samuel?" 

Then  I  said  I  knew  she  could  not  do  anything 
wrong.  Lena  is  a  good  girl.  Mary  is  a  good  girl, 
too.  Any  man  ought  to  be  proud  to  have  her,  and 
if  I  was  her  I  would  tell  the  Wop  to  go  and  chase 
himself.  The  chances  are  he  is  worse  than  she  is. 

I  know  I  would  have  been  a  blackened  sinner  if  I 
had«had  the  nerve.  Lots  of  times,  I  have  felt  like 
going  out  to  pick  up  girls,  but  I  am  afraid  of  women 
because  I  am  so  homely.  A  homely  face  is  the  best 
protection  the  young  can  have,  especially  girls.  If 
Mary  looked  like  some  of  the  girls  at  the  Conserva 
tory  who  are  jealous  of  Lena,  she  would  have  been 
able  to  marry  the  best  barber  in  Italy  without 
thinking  twice  about  it. 


THIRON'S  MISHAP 

I  AM  acquainted  with  Jacques  Thiron,  the  great 
violinist,  but  something  happened  to  him  which 
made  me  very  sorry. 

Signor  Grazzoni  has  composed  a  Caprice  for  vio 
lin,  and  the  afternoon  before  the  Thiron  recital,  he 
asked  Jacques  to  play  it  for  the  first  time,  and  he 
called  me  in  to  play  the  piano  part  because  the  Sig 
nor  wanted  to  hear  it  from  a  little  distance.  It  was 
in  manuscript  which  is  difficult  to  read. 

Thiron  plays  thoughtfully  and  reverently,  and 
phrases  more  clearly  than  any  one  I  have  heard. 
We  played  the  Caprice  and  Signor  Grazzoni  was 
delighted.  Thiron  called  me  Monsieur  Graydon 
and  treated  me  just  as  if  I  were  a  great  artist  like 
him.  It  is  only  the  second-raters  who  are  stuck  up, 
it  seems  to  me.  I  could  n't  help  thinking  at  the 
time  that  I  was  a  hot-looking  Monsieur.  They 
gave  me  three  tickets  to  the  recital  at  Symphony. 

It  was  a  terrible  evening.  When  it  was  over,  my 
arms  ached  because  I  had  clenched  my  fists  all 
through  the  programme.  I  was  shaking. 

The  first  number  was  a  Sonata  for  Violin  and 
184 


ERASERS 

Piano,  Opus  24,  by  Beethoven.  The  first  movement 
is  allegro,  and  it  seems  to  mean,  not  pictures  or 
stories,  but  the  feeling  of  the  air  in  spring.  I  think 
the  violin  part  is  the  air  and  sunshine.  The  answer 
from  the  piano  is  the  water  running  under  the  earth, 
just  before  the  first  buds  break  through.  Thiron 
must  have  felt  Lena  listening,  the  way  he  played  it. 
The  adagio  is  the  quiet  of  the  ocean,  smooth  at 
night,  blue-gray,  with  phosphorous  patches  at  the 
end.  Then  came  the  scherzo  and  all  the  trouble. 
The  violin  and  piano  chase  one  another,  like  two 
colts  running  good-naturedly  into  the  pasture,  the 
last  just  whisking  his  tail  clear  of  the  swinging  gate. 
In  the  trio,  the  second  period  is  repeated  twice.  It 
leaves  you  on  A-natural,  all  ready  to  go  back  to  the 
part  like  the  colts.  Thiron  forgot  to  repeat  it,  and 
the  accompanist,  instead  of  keeping  with  him, 
played  the  accompaniment  right  on  as  if  the  period 
were  being  repeated.  This  caught  Thiron  off  his 
guard  and  confused  him  so  he  had  to  stop. 

I  never  felt  so  sorry  for  any  one  in  my  life.  There 
he  was,  a  great  artist,  with  Symphony  Hall  packed 
to  the  gallery,  and  everybody  thinking  it  was  his 
fault.  He  flushed  and  stammered  and  begged  the 
audience's  pardon,  and  started  again,  but  his  arm 

185 


INDELIBLE 

shook,  and  I  knew  all  through  the  programme  just 
how  he  felt.  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  get 
ting  up  and  explaining  what  that  fool  accompanist 
had  done.  Often  the  soloist  does  not  follow  the 
repeat  marks  just  as  they  are. 

I  suppose  the  reason  was  that  the  scherzo  is  a 
very  simple  and  easy  part  to  execute  and  so  he 
went  to  sleep.  We  always  fall  down  on  the  easy 
movements,  especially  if  a  hard  one  comes  before. 

At  the  end,  for  a  final  encore,  he  played  the 
Bach-Gounod  Ave  Maria,  and  Mary,  who  was 
with  us,  cried  and  held  on  to  her  rosary  and  she 
sobbed  all  the  way  home.  Why  should  such  a 
lovely  girl  cry  for  a  barber? 

As  we  were  going  out,  we  passed  the  stage  en 
trance  and  out  came  Thiron.  I  went  right  up  to 
him  and  there  were  tears  in  my  eyes.  I  forgot  to 
be  bashful  and  said  that  the  accompanist  ought 
to  be  shot.  I  told  Thiron  the  audience  was  full  of 
musicians  and  they  would  know  better  than  to 
blame  him. 

"I  was  very  careless,  Monsieur  Graydon,"  he 
said,  white  and  sick.  "I  shall  never  play  again." 

Lena  heard  this,  and  she  spoke  right  up  and  said 
he  was  an  artist  and  must  not  deprive  the  people 

186 


ERASERS 

on  account  of  an  accident.  He  bowed  and  thanked 
her,  but  I  never  saw  a  man  so  sad. 

Such  a  thing  is  worse  than  breaking  a  string 
every  afternoon  like  Ysaye  does. 

I  would  give  anything  if  I  could  bow  the  way 
Thiron  does. 

LENA,  Mary,  and  I  walked  home.  I  don't  know 
what  is  worse  than  a  crowded  street-car,  after  hear 
ing  good  music.  I  tried  to  cheer  Mary  up  and  told 
her  that  she  need  n't  worry  if  Pietro  loved  her.  I 
would  not  tell  him  at  all,  if  he  is  jealous,  I  said, 
because  it  will  start  his  imagination  going  all  the 
time.  What  he  does  not  know  will  not  hurt  him, 
priest  or  no  priest. 


THE  war  is  playing  havoc  with  music.  The  Sym 
phony  Orchestra  is  almost  busted  up  because  the 
players  are  mostly  foreigners  and  some  have  been 
interned.  The  singers  cannot  sing  German  songs, 
or  Austrian  songs,  because  the  public  will  not  stand 
for  it,  and  there  are  not  enough  songs  in  English  to 
fill  the  programmes.  Some  of  the  singers  sing  pa 
triotic  songs  with  more  words  than  music,  and  they 
get  a  big  hand,  but  Mr.  Flynn  says  they  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  themselves.  Julia  Gulp  is  not  com 
ing  here  again  until  after  the  war  and  Fritz  Kreisler 
had  to  stop  his  pension  fund  for  crippled  musicians 
because  the  Department  of  Justice  will  not  let  him 
play. 

Most  of  the  older  boys  are  either  drafted  or  en 
listed,  and  the  ones  who  were  drafted  make  fun  of 
me  because  I  cannot  get  into  the  service.  After  the 
way  Kreisler  and  the  others  have  been  treated,  I  do 
not  think  so  much  of  the  war. 

The  Social  Circle  has  taken  up  Red  Cross  work 
and  now  they  make  socks  instead  of  quilts  for  the 
heathen.  It  seems  to  me  the  heathen  are  lucky. 

188 


ERASERS 

They  have  sense  enough  not  to  kill  each  other  off 
by  the  wholesale.  I  suppose  the  Cannibals  have  to 
Hooverize. 

Camp  Devens  is  a  busy  place.  It  has  grown  up 
like  a  mushroom  and  the  soldiers  are  going  in  and 
out  almost  every  night.  All  the  war  work  I  can  do 
is  to  play  at  Camp  Devens,  but  that  is  no  good. 
Lena  went  with  me  and  we  played  a  concerto  and 
then  somebody  hollered  for  jazz.  I  would  have 
busted  him  in  the  nose,  war  or  no  war,  if  I  could 
have  found  out  who  it  was.  Since  that  concert, 
Lena  has  thought  less  of  the  war. 

Peter  Brooks  has  gone  and  joined  the  Canadian 
Army,  because  he  was  too  young  for  the  United 
States.  His  mother  is  back  in  the  church  and  has 
joined  the  Red  Cross.  People  are  too  busy  now  to 
bother  about  whether  anybody  works  on  Sunday 
or  not. 

Miss  Stoddard  is  a  pacifist  and  that  gets  her  into 
no  end  of  trouble  with  the  other  women.  She  says 
that  war  is  wholesale  murder,  and  that  if  the 
Christians  knew  their  own  religion,  it  would  not  be 
possible.  She  contributed  a  fund  to  get  lawyers  for 
the  conscientious  objectors.  They  call  her  a  Ger 
man  sympathizer,  but  she  has  read  so  many  books 

189 


INDELIBLE 

on  Anarchy  and  Socialism  that  she  can  always  get 
the  last  word.  Half  the  time,  they  do  not  know 
what  she  is  talking  about,  so  they  call  it  treason  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  I  remember  she  said  the  same 
things  when  we  did  not  know  whether  we  were  at 
war  with  Mexico  or  not.  The  papers  are  nothing 
but  war.  Every  day  the  Allies  sweep  ahead  four  or 
five  miles  and  then  they  hold  their  own  awhile,  and 
the  first  thing  you  know,  the  Germans  are  almost 
to  Paris.  Mrs.  Gott  is  one  of  the  most  patriotic 
women  in  Cliftondale.  She  would  gladly  send  her 
son,  if  he  was  not  working  in  the  shipyards  where 
he  cannot  be  spared. 

The  people  in  Cliftondale  thought  there  was  a 
German  spy  in  town,  because  they  heard  strange 
noises  at  night,  like  a  wireless,  near  Black  Ann's 
corner,  but  the  scare  is  over  now.  It  was  an  elec 
tric  wire  rubbing  on  a  tree.  All  a  spy  could  find  out 
in  Cliftondale  would  be  the  number  of  socks  the 
Red  Cross  makes,  but  half  of  them  are  no  good, 
so  that  would  be  misleading,  even  if  the  Huns 
knew  it. 

THE  time  is  up  and  Mrs.  Tomlinson  was  wrong 
about  Jim  Wilson's  being  married  for  immodest 

190 


ERASERS 

reasons.  He  has  n't  had  a  baby  yet,  nor  no  signs  of 
one.  The  other  women  were  wrong,  too,  because  he 
enlisted  in  the  army  and  now  is  wounded.  Well, 
they  say  everything  is  fair  in  love  and  war. 

I  cannot  help  feeling  uncomfortable  because  I 
am  not  wearing  a  uniform.  Every  one  makes  it  so 
unpleasant  for  the  ones  who  do  not  fight.  I  would 
have  been  a  hero,  only  they  did  n't  want  heroes 
with  glasses.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  hardly  ever 
saw  a  hero  that  had  glasses  on.  I  would  have  been 
all  right  in  the  artillery  where  the  guns  are  so  big 
they  are  sure  to  hit  something  whether  they  shoot 
straight  or  not. 

MY  course  at  the  Conservatory  will  be  over  in 
June,  and  I  am  glad,  in  a  way,  because  father's 
carpet-cleaning  business  has  gone  to  smash  since 
the  people  have  spent  all  their  money  for  Liberty 
bonds.  It  is  a  bad  time  for  a  musician  to  get  a  job, 
for  the  same  reason. 


EYES  NOT  AIMED  AT 

LENA  has  disappeared  and  I  never  want  to  see  a 
piano  again.  I  hate  God  if  He  is  responsible  for 
such  things. 

We  were  to  graduate  in  June  and  the  faculty  had 
planned  to  have  Lena  play  at  the  last  recital.  They 
had  been  holding  her  back  from  public  appearances 
so  that  the  critics  and  newspaper-men  would  have 
a  big  surprise.  Of  course,  I  was  to  play  her  accom 
paniment,  as  I  have  specialized  in  accompanying 
all  the  way  through.  We  practiced  for  weeks  and 
weeks,  and  Lena  seemed  to  grow  lovelier  and  love* 
lier,  for  the  occasion. 

At  first  she  worried  about  her  clothes.  The 
girls  keep  making  remarks  about  them,  and  in 
stead  of  getting  mad,  as  she  did  at  first,  she  began 
to  worry.  One  night  she  told  me  she  felt  she  did 
not  look  just  right  and  she  had  tried  dress  after 
dress  in  the  stores  and  none  of  them  suited  her. 

The  idea  of  her  not  looking  all  right !  She  could 
look  good  even  in  one  of  Miss  Stoddard's  hats,  and 
I  told  her  so,  but  she  said  men  did  not  understand 
such  things.  If  she  had  ever  seen  Miss  Stoddard 
she  would  have  realized  what  I  meant.  It  seemed 

192 


ERASERS 

to  be  up  to  me  to  do  something,  although  girls' 
clothes  are  not  my  forte.  Finally,  I  asked  Mrs. 
Ford,  the  lady  who  believed  in  tolerance  before 
the  war.  Mrs.  Ford  was  nice  as  could  be,  and  came 
to  Boston  to  meet  Lena.  They  spent  a  couple  of 
days  in  the  stores  and  bought  all  the  things  needed 
for  the  recital. 

Every  time  I  think  of  how  Lena  looked  that  night, 
I  have  to  go  out  and  walk  the  streets  for  miles.  I 
hardly  ever  sleep  without  dreaming  and  every  time 
I  get  into  a  crowd,  I  think  I  see  her,  but  it  never 
turns  out  to  be  true.  Where  can  she  be  hiding? 

She  had  her  hair  done  by  a  hairdresser  and  it 
was  piled  and  coiled  until  there  seemed  too  much 
for  her  head  to  hold.  Her  dress  was  dark  blue  silk 
and  a  trifle  low  in  the  neck.  Her  arms  and  shoul 
ders  were  bare  and  white  as  marble.  She  was  too 
beautiful  for  me  to  look  at.  Even  her  little  slippers 
matched. 

An  hour  before  the  recital,  we  met  in  the  concert 
hall  to  go  over  the  programme.  We  played  the 
Paganini  "Hexentanz"  and  she  ripped  off  the  piz 
zicato  at  the  end  like  a  flock  of  lizards  scurrying 
across  dry  quartz.  Then  came  the  fatal  number. 
It  was  an  arrangement  of  "Eili,  Eili,"  a  Hebrew 

193 


INDELIBLE 

lament.  She  put  her  whole  soul  into  it,  and  every 
time  she  touched  the  G  string,  I  knew  she  was 
thinking  of  her  poor  old  father  in  that  cold,  dismal 
cemetery,  unable  to  hear.  I  could  n't  stand  to  see 
her  eyes  wet,  and  at  the  finale,  after  she  had  laid 
down  her  violin,  I  took  her  in  my  arms  before  I 
knew  what  I  was  doing.  She  sprang  right  close  to 
me  and  sobbed  and  clung  and  looked  right  into  my 
eyes.  I  knew  she  loved  me,  and  just  as  I  was  stoop 
ing  to  kiss  her,  there  was  a  crash  that  shook  echoes 
out  of  all  the  empty  seats.  Lena  turned  white  and 
reeled,  and  as  she  fell  back,  I  saw  her  left  hand  was 
bleeding. 

The  heavy  top  of  the  piano  had  fallen  down  and 
clipped  off  the  ends  of  her  fingers  and  there  were 
the  raw  stumps.  I  called  for  help  and  a  doctor  was 
rushed  in  just  as  she  opened  her  eyes.  The  violin 
was  right  beside  her. 

They  held  her  and  bathed  her  hand,  but  the  doc 
tor  shook  his  head  and  said, 

"Those  two  fingers  cannot  be  saved.  They  will 
have  to  come  off  at  the  first  joint," 

Everybody  turned  sick  to  their  stomachs.  Herr 
Reinhardt  collapsed  and  Mr.  Flynn  turned  his 
back  to  the  rest  and  cried  like  a  baby, 

194 


ERASERS 

Then  the  worst  of  all.  Lena  seemed  to  come  out 
of  the  trance  and  she  sat  a  minute,  very  still,  look 
ing  at  her  left  hand.  Then  she  let  out  a  cry  that  I 
will  hear  to  my  dying  day,  knocked  the  doctor  out 
of  the  way,  grabbed  the  violin  and  smashed  it  on 
top  of  the  piano.  Then  she  fainted  again  and  they 
carried  her  to  an  ambulance. 

I  walked  the  streets  all  night,  and  I  don't  remem 
ber  anything  but  that  terrible  "Eili,  Eili,"  running 
backwards  and  forwards  through  iny. brain.  The 
next  morning,  I  tried  to  get  -into1  th£  bfospitaj,  but 
she  was  delirious  and  they 
I  kept  on  walkin|H^HI^I 
ting  cursed  b^^HHHH 
the  next  thi^ig  J  knew, 
I  was  in  a  hospital 

l>ey  could  net  •] 
woke  pp,  I  went  to  Lena's  - 
1  ady  *?ried  and  said 
tilings,  in  an  au 
to  £u<i  them. 

:    I  have  not  touched  <i  piano  $incc.  I  wo u|d  break 
lat  thing  with  an  axe  if  I  could  go  near  e&ougli  to 
[fit.  I  never  went  back  for  my  diploma. 

What  shall  I  do? 


n't  l 


SEARCH  FOR  A  FACE 

Faces  are  water-drops  and  the  city  is  a  reservoir  of 
faces,  flowing  inward  from  a  spacious  watershed. 

Railways  are  rivers,  angry  and  swollen,  and  the 
morning  faces  rush  in,  yawning,  pale,  and  lifeless. 
Subterranean  springs  belch  faces  from  subways  and 
tunnels.  Higher  thoroughfares  are  canals  on  which 
well-laundered  faces  float  with  much  more  dignity. 

Rushing,  foaming,  whirling.  Eddies  and  swirls 
and  vortices.  Filled  to  overflowing. 

Then  the  floodgates  are  set  and  the  influx  subsides. 
Faces  are  not  so  terrifying  when  there  is  room  to 
breathe. 

Noon,  and  criss-cross  currents  slosh  from  side  to 
side.  Intersections  of  great  streets  are  whirlpools. 
Solemn  blue  faces  hold  up  white  gloves  and  tend  the 
gates  and  locks. 

Hidden  under  cold  stone  walls  are  cisterns,  and 
therein  stagnant  faces  chill  and  rot  and  slime  on  top. 
Prisons. 

By  rows  of  great  trees  are  giant  filters  and  a  stream 
of  twisted  faces  go  in  red  and  come  out  white.  Hos 
pitals. 

196 


ERASERS 

Dripping  faces,  driven  in  troughs,  make  great 
steel  wheels  go  round,  hour  after  hour,  monotonously. 
Great  wheels  must  turn  and  faces  must  be  fed.  Fac 
tories. 

Evenings  bring  the  level  to  the  spillway  brim,  and 
great  floodgates  are  opened.  Muddy  faces  slosh  and 
roar  and  crowd  the  outbound  ditches,  soaking  the 
ground  for  miles. 

Many  drops  are  lost  and  sink  beneath  the  earth  and 
no  one  knows  the  rest  of  that. 

The  barren  plains  are  irrigated  with  faces.  Noth 
ing  grows  in  deserts,  where  no  people  are,  except  the 
vegetation  God  intended.  City  water  makes  strange 
growths  appear,  and  who  has  time  for  weeding? 

Tributaries  are  of  many  colors.  Some  are  black  and 
dirty,  or  brown  and  thick  with  silt.  Some  are  yellow, 
looking  poison  ;  others  sad  and  empty  gray.  But  there 
are  small  rivulets  of  drops  which  are  white  and  pure. 
What  becomes  of  them?  Water  in  the  reservoir  is 
much  the  same,  but  only  surface  water  may  be  seen. 

Faces  are  mixed  and  mingled  in  the  giant  reservoir, 
sometimes  over,  sometimes  under  —  circling,  gurgling. 
Only  surface  faces  may  be  seen  and  surface  faces 
soon  go  down. 

How  may  a  single  face  be  found? 
197 


INDELIBLE 

I  HAVE  searched  everywhere.   It  is  hopeless. 

Why  does  she  wish  to  hide  from  me? 

Crowds  make  me  dizzy,  I  have  seen  so  many 
lately.  Some  evenings  I  spend  at  the  North  Station, 
sitting  by  the  door  of  the  ladies'  room,  and  my 
neck  gets  cramped  and  the  cords  swell  and  ache 
from  hours  of  watching.  Every  time  the  door 
swings  from  the  street,  I  think,  "This  may  be 
Lena;"  but  it  never  is.  I  know  where  the  level  of 
her  face  would  be  and  so  I  keep  my  eyes  just  there. 
I  look  straight  at  the  door.  Then  I  hear  footsteps 
out  of  the  ladies'  room  and  I  have  to  turn  my  head, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth.  It  hurts  my  neck 
and  the  end  of  my  spine.  Sometimes  I  see  a  face 
which  knows  me  and  speaks  and  says,  "What  are 
you  looking  for,  Sam?"  and  always  laughs.  I 
dread  it  when  I  see  a  face  I  know.  Some  day  I 
shall  kill  one.  First  it  walks  along,  blank,  minding 
its  own  business.  Then  a  flicker  of  light  goes  over  it 
and  the  eyes  become  fixed.  Then  the  smile  and  the 
chin  gets  ready .  .  . 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  Sam?"  Then  the 
laugh.  Some  day  I  shall  kill  one. 

As  evening  drags  on,  the  footsteps  come  thinner 
and  the  doorway  gets  a  rest  sometimes,  and  then 

198 


ERASERS 

my  neck  and  spine  ache  more  than  ever.  I  have  to 
watch  out  for  the  cop.  He  walks  up  and  down  and 
I  think  I  feel  his  eyes  on  me.  I  feel  guilty,  but  I 
don't  know  why.  When  he  passes,  I  keep  my  eyes 
down.  People  laugh,  because  I  have  to  look  so  hard 
to  see  the  doorway,  I  guess.  I  must  get  stronger 
glasses.  The  nigger  shoveled  sawdust  on  my  feet 
when  he  was  sweeping  up  the  other  night  and  it 
startled  me. 

WHAT  is  there  to  do?  The  landlady  does  not  know 
a  thing.  She  has  not  heard  from  Lena.  The  Con 
servatory  is  closed  for  the  summer,  but  no  one 
there  would  know.  I  cannot  find  out  where  she 
lived  before.  I  forgot  the  street  she  told  me  at 
Nantasket. 

Father  does  not  understand  the  tragedy. 

"Sam,  my  boy,  you  are  out  nights  a  good  deal 
lately.  I  hope  you  are  behaving  yourself." 

When  I  told  him  about  the  accident,  he  said, 
"It's  a  damn  shame,  but  I  knew  a  fiddler  up  in 
Milford  who  played  tip-top  with  one  whole  finger 
gone." 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  laughed  at  this.  I  just 
laughed  right  out  and  could  n't  stop.  Think  of 

199 


INDELIBLE 

laughing  at  my  poor  Lena's  crushed  hand,  but  I 
could  n't  stop.  Father  knows  it  worries  me  be 
cause  I  cannot  find  her. 

"Son,  keep  your  shirt  on,"  he  said.  "She  will 
write  you  some  one  of  these  moonlight  nights." 

But  she  never  does. 

WHAT  makes  me  think  such  terrible  things  of  her? 
Her  picture  on  that  last  night  is  under  my  eyelids 
and  what  do  I  see  when  I  close  my  eyes?  White 
bare  arms  and  shoulders  and  a  rim  of  bright  blue 
silk  and  then  It  begins,  wildly,  somewhere  out  in 
the  night. 

"Eili,  Eili."  And  then  I  hear  her  say,  "Wouldn't 
you,  Samuel?"  —  and  then  I  think  of  Mary  and 
wonder  what 's  become  of  her.  And  then  that  vile 
Revere  House  comes.  I  cannot  shut  it  out.  I 
see  a  coarse,  half-shaven  man  with  puffy  eyelids 
leering  in  a  glass  of  stale  beer,  and  I  see  him 
lower  at  my  Lena's  bare  white  arms  and  shoulders 
and  then  a  priest  says  in  a  maddening  sing-song: 
You  must  tell  the  barber 

Mama,  told  me  not  to 

You  must  tell  the  barber 

Mama  told  me  not  to. 

200 


ERASERS 

And  pretty  soon  we  all  skip  around  a  circle  with 
the  leering  man  in  the  center,  always  looking  at 
Lena's  shoulders,  and  all  of  us  singing  that  silly 
song. 

And  then  I  spring  up  in  a  cold  sweat  and  I  can' 
not  forget  because  I  have  not  really  been  asleep. 

What  shall  I  do? 


DISAPPOINTMENT 

Now  I  am  a  jailbird  and  the  whole  town  knows  it. 
I  don't  care  for  myself,  but  I  hate  to  have  those  old 
hens  say  they  are  glad  "poor  Ellen"  is  not  here  to 
see  her  son  disgraced. 

Before  it  happened,  I  had  n't  slept  for  two 
nights,  and  the  mixed-up  things  in  my  head  made 
me  feel  queer  all  the  time,  and  afraid  of  people.  As 
usual,  I  started  for  Boston  and  walked  and  walked 
the  streets.  How  many  plaid  skirts  there  are,  with 
little  slits  along  the  side.  I  see  them  getting  into 
street-cars  and  the  door  slams  just  before  I  can  get 
on.  Then  I  am  sick,  because  I  may  have  missed 
her.  I  see  hats  like  Lena's,  far  ahead  in  the  crowd 
and  I  hurry  to  catch  them,  hoping  every  time. 

But  she  never  is  there. 

Everywhere  are  clothes  like  hers.  I  walk  through 
department  stores  where  there  are  thousands  of 
girls,  and  once  I  thought  I  saw  Mary.  It  is  hard 
for  me  to  see  at  a  long  distance.  I  ought  to  have 
different  glasses. 

Toward  evening,  on  the  day  I  was  arrested,  I 
saw  a  skirt  I  thought  might  be  the  one,  so  I  fol- 

202 


ERASERS 

lowed  it.  I  began  to  sweat  and  shake,  for  when  it 
started  down  Howard  Street,  I  knew  it  was  going 
to  the  Revere  House.  Sure  enough,  before  I  could 
get  near  to  it,  it  went  up  the  Grotto  stairs.  I 
walked  by  the  door  four  times  before  I  could  get 
up  courage  to  go  in.  Then  I  went  into  the  cafe 
which  was  only  half  full.  At  the  tables  by  the  win 
dows,  there  were  girls  sitting  alone  and  in  pairs, 
sipping  drinks  and  glancing  over  at  the  men,  who 
were  scattered  all  around.  The  girl  with  the  plaid 
skirt,  thank  God,  was  not  Lena,  and  I  got  so  weak 
that  I  sat  down,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew,  the 
waiter  was  at  my  elbow  and  said: 

" What '11  you  have?" 

I  did  n't  know  what  to  say,  because  I  hate  beer, 
and  so  I  asked  for  a  "Rye  High"  which  I  had 
heard  one  of  the  girls  order.  If  the  girls  can  drink 
it,  I  thought  to  myself,  it  can't  be  very  strong.  He 
brought  the  drink  and  I  took  a  sip  which  made  me 
feel  a  little  brighter,  although  it  tasted  like  medi 
cine.  I  was  so  tired,  I  sat  there  and  watched  the 
people.  Every  once  in  a  while,  a  man  would  catch 
a  girl's  eye  and  first  the  man  would  go  out  and  then 
the  girl  would  follow. 

After  a  while,  somebody's  foot  stumbled  on  my 
203 


INDELIBLE 

chair,  and  a  drunk  sat  down  at  the  table  opposite 
me.  I  sweat  when  I  saw  his  face,  because  it  looked 
just  like  the  man  in  my  half  dream.  He  talked  to 
me  in  a  thick  voice  and  his  breath  was  awful.  Fi 
nally,  he  spied  the  girl  in  the  skirt  like  Lena's  and 
tried  to  flirt  with  her.  She  looked  away  quick  and 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  but  he  did  n't 
take  the  hint,  and  kept  on  winking  and  making 
remarks  to  her  and  to  me.  His  face  looked  more 
and  more  like  the  man  who  leered  at  Lena  and  I 
could  n't  keep  my  eyes  away  from  it. 

He  had  another  drink  and  so  did  I,  because  he 
insisted  on  treating  me  and  made  so  much  noise 
about  it,  I  said  "Yes"  to  keep  him  quiet.  Then  he 
got  ugly  and  said : 

"I'll  show  that  stuck-up  whore  where  she  gets 
off."  He  staggered  over  to  her  table.  The  girl 
looked  frightened  and  started  to  get  up,  but  he 
grabbed  her  arm.  I  saw  his  face  close  to  hers  and 
something  made  me  crazy.  The  next  thing  I  knew, 
the  waiters  were  holding  me  and  the  proprietor  was 
fishing  glass  out  of  the  drunk's  face  where  my  glass 
had  hit  him.  Then  the  cops  came  in  and  took  me  to 
the  corner.  The  patrol  wagon  clanged  up  and  the 
drunk  and  I  were  carried  away. 

204 


ERASERS 

At  the  station,  the  sergeant  took  our  names  and 
our  money  and  put  us  into  separate  cells  and  I 
went  right  off  to  sleep. 

I  woke  with  a  start  and  a  splitting  headache,  and 
who  was  outside  but  father  and  a  sergeant.  I  never 
felt  so  bad  and  could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say. 
He  looked  worried  and  asked,  "Are  you  hurt, 
Sam?"  I  said  "No"  and  then  he  said,  "Come  on 
home." 

I  felt  better  then,  because  I  thought  I  would  get 
three  months  or  so  and  have  to  do  hard  labor. 

About  that  time,  another  cop  came  in,  with  the 
girl  in  the  plaid  skirt  who  was  saying, 

"The  kid's  all  right.  He  slugged  that  big  fat 
head  when  he  started  the  rough  stuff  with  me.  If 
you  want  bail,  I'll  dig  up  whatever  you  say  and 
you  can  keep  the  change.  I  '11  take  care  of  the  kid 
until  he  gets  sober."  Then  she  saw  father  and 
ducked  quick  so  he  did  n't  see  her.  I  don't  know 
where  she  went. 

We  all  went  to  the  desk  and  the  man  there 
looked  at  father  and  said,  "For  God's  sake,  Alec 
Gray don!" 

"If  it  ain't  Paddy  Ryan!"  said  father. 

Paddy,  who  was  the  desk  sergeant,  said  he 
205 


INDELIBLE 

did  n't  know  I  was  Alec  Graydon's  son.  lie 
thought  it  was  a  fake  name.  They  chatted  awhile, 
and  when  the  sergeant  started  to  tell  about  some 
of  the  scrapes  they  were  into  when  they  were  boys, 
father  gave  him  the  wink  to  shut  up. 

On  the  way  home,  I  told  father  I  was  sorry  I  had 
disgraced  him  and  he  said, 

"Forget  it,  Sam.  I  got  jugged  with  Paddy  up  in 
Milford  years  ago  and  I  lived  it  down.  Better  let 
liquor  alone,  son.  You  have  no  head  for  it." 

I  asked  him  how  he  knew  I  was  arrested  and  he 
said  Mr.  Holt  was  on  his  way  to  the  North  Station 
and  saw  them  put  me  in  the  wagon. 

As  soon  as  we  reached  home,  I  went  right  to  bed 
and  slept  all  the  rest  of  the  night  and  half  the  next 
day.  I  woke  sitting  up  straight  with  a  great  idea. 
Lena  had  lived  in  the  North  End  and  the  school 
records  would  give  me  her  old  address. 

DISAPPOINTED  again.  Nothing  but  disappoint 
ments.  The  schools  were  all  closed,  so  I  found  out 
the  teachers'  names  and  addresses  and  the  only  one 
at  home  was  an  old  maid  named  Hardwick  who 
lives  in  Brookline.  Miss  Hardwick  said  she  remem 
bered  Lena  Borofsky,  and  after  thinking  a  while 

206 


ERASERS 

recollected  that  Lena  and  her  father  used  to  live 
on  Pitts  Street  years  ago. 

I  had  never  been  on  Pitts  Street. 

After  a  while,  I  found  it  and  went  from  one  end 
to  the  other.  It  was  crowded  with  children  shout 
ing  and  playing  ball  and  dodging  the  teams  and 
pushcarts  and  auto  trucks.  The  alleys  were  full  of 
ash-cans  with  flies  buzzing  around  them,  and  I  got 
splashed  from  a  puddle  by  the  livery  stable  where 
they  had  been  washing  down  the  horses. 

A  livery  stable  smells  good  on  Pitts  Street. 

The  people  were  mostly  Italians  and  could  n't 
understand  much  English.  As  soon  as  I  would  ask 
one,  he  would  call  a  little  kid  to  interpret  us  and  he 
would  always  be  polite  and  sorry  he  could  n't  help 
me.  I  should  think  that  if  the  kids  can  learn  Eng 
lish,  the  grown  men  and  women  could  do  it  easily. 
Goodness  knows,  it  is  easier  than  Italian. 

None  of  the  Jews  remembered  Lena,  but  I  don't 
think  they  understood  what  I  meant.  At  last  a  cop 
came  along  and  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  her.  He 
had  n't  been  on  the  beat  long,  he  said,  but  there 
were  a  couple  of  swell-looking  girls  over  at  a  num 
ber  on  Hanover  Street.  He  saw  me  get  red,  I  guess, 
because  he  said  he  was  only  joking,  and  then  told 

207 


INDELIBLE 

me  that  Boris  Klein,  who  keeps  a  haberdashery 
over  on  School  Street  knew  the  district  better  than 
any  one  else,  because  he  was  going  to  run  for  the 
House  next  year,  if  Martin  would  let  him. 

After  a  while  I  found  the  shop  on  School  Street 
and  Mr.  Klein  was  there.  He  was  a  young  Jew 
with  black,  curly  hair  and  good-natured  eyes  and 
his  clothes  looked  like  a  window  dummy.  He 
smiled  and  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me  as  soon  as  he 
found  I  was  n't  a  salesman.  I  described  Lena  and 
said  she  used  to  live  on  Pitts  Street. 

"Do  you  remember  her,  Mr.  Klein?" 

"I'll  say  I  do,"  he  said  with  expression.  "She 
was  an  old  schoolmate  of  mine,  and  one  day  in  the 
lower  grades,  when  I  made  fun  of  her  father  selling 
rags,  she  gave  me  something  to  remember  her 
by.  There  were  scratches  on  my  face  for  a  couple 
months,  'sa  fact." 

"That's  Lena,"  I  said,  right  away.  "Where  did 
she  go?  Is  she  still  on  Pitts  Street?  "  My  heart  was 
pounding  and  my  stomach  felt  sick. 

"No,  her  old  man  set  up  a  second-hand  store 
over  on  Green  Street.  You  can  get  the  number  at 
City  Hall,  half  a  block  up  the  street,  from  the 
records  of  the  License  Board." 

208 


ERASERS 

I  thanked  him  and  was  just  going  out  when  he 
said,  "Any  time  you  want  anything  in  the  line  of 
shirts,  collars,  neckties,  underwear,  pajamas,  hand 
kerchiefs,  or  haberdashery  of  any  kind,  you  can't 
do  better  than  here."  He  looked  expectant. 

It  seemed  to  be  a  cheap  trick  to  go  out  without 
buying  anything,  after  taking  up  all  of  his  time,  so 
I  looked  over  some  neckties  and  shirts  and  spent 
nearly  three  dollars  before  I  could  get  out. 

At  the  City  Hall,  I  found  out  there  was  a  license 
to  M.  Borofsky  at  19  Green  Street  which  had  been 
superseded  long  ago.  That  must  have  been  Lena's 
father,  but  I  went  to  that  number  and  there  were 
a  couple  of  older  Jews  who  did  n't  know  a  thing 
about  Lena.  I  bought  a  cap,  which  took  almost  all 
my  money,  and  I  had  to  come  home  empty-handed, 
except  for  a  lot  of  clothes. 

I  SEEM  to  have  a  little  more  hope  now,  and  I  must 
be  like  the  man  named  Bruce,  Miss  Stoddard  read 
about  years  ago,  who  persevered  and  brushed  down 
the  cobwebs  as  fast  as  the  spiders  could  build 
them. 


ODD  JOBS 

Music  has  come  back  to  me  and  when  things  are 
hard  to  bear,  I  play  and  play  for  hours.  When  I 
improvise,  the  new  chords  of  Debussy  come  more 
naturally  to  my  ear. 

One  day  I  was  sitting  alone  and  a  truck  drove  to 
the  door.  The  driver  stamped  up  the  stairs  and 
asked  if  I  was  Mr.  Samuel  Graydon,  74  Salem 
Street.  He  said  he  had  a  piano  for  me.  Of  course, 
I  thought  there  was  some  mistake,  but  he  showed 
me  the  slip,  and  just  at  that  time,  Jim,  the  mail 
man,  brought  a  letter  from  the  Conservatory.  It 
said  the  Aldrich  Prize  for  the  most  deserving  piano 
student  had  been  awarded  unanimously  to  me,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  wretched  accident  on  the 
night  of  the  last  recital  had  prevented  me  from 
playing.  The  other  students  who  were  to  compete 
had  been  consulted,  the  letter  said,  and  would  con 
sent  to  no  other  arrangement. 

Before  I  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  the 
piano-movers  had  started  to  bring  the  instrument 
up  the  steps.  They  placed  it  in  the  parlor,  asked 
me  to  sign  the  slip,  and  left  me  alone.  What  a 

210 


ERASERS 

beauty !  It  was  alive.  A  small  grand  of  simple  de 
sign  in  mahogany.  I  opened  the  keyboard  and 
tried  a  note.  It  spoke  to  me.  I  do  not  remember 
sitting  down,  but  father  came  in  two  hours  later 
and  found  me  playing.  As  soon  as  I  stopped,  I  was 
exhausted  and  went  right  to  sleep. 

Since  then,  I  have  played  four  or  five  hours  a 
day  and  sometimes  when  I  stop,  I  see  Bill  Milliken 
sitting  in  the  next  room,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe 
and  listening.  He  comes  in  very  quietly. 

Bill  has  signed  the  pledge  again. 

I  went  to  the  Conservatory  to  thank  them,  and 
they  were  all  so  kind  to  me,  but  nobody  said  a  word 
about  Lena.  They  know  how  I  feel  about  it. 

My  diploma  is  being  framed. 

I  CANNOT  seem  to  hold  a  job. 

First,  I  tried  to  play  in  a  movie  house,  because 
we  needed  the  money.  The  piano  was  an  old  up 
right  with  half  the  keys  sticky,  and  besides  that, 
there  was  a  drum  and  cornet.  With  the  drum  bang 
ing  in  one  ear  all  afternoon  and  evening,  and  the 
cornet  bellowing  into  the  other,  I  could  n't  hear 
myself  play  and  I  am  thankful  for  that  much.  For 
the  first  week  or  so  it  used  to  make  my  head  ache 

211 


all  the  time  and  I  lost  my  appetite  completely. 
How  do  people  listen  to  such  stuff?  I  stuck  it  out 
for  a  couple  of  months,  and  then  I  had  a  chance  to 
play  in  a  theater  orchestra,  substituting  for  a  man 
who  was  overseas.  It  was  understood,  of  course, 
that  I  was  to  leave  as  soon  as  he  returned.  The 
theater  job  was  as  bad  as  the  movie  house,  but  I 
got  along  after  a  fashion  as  soon  as  I  got  wise  that 
I  was  to  pay  no  attention  to  holds  and  rests  or  the 
tempo  or  dynamic  marks. 

I  was  called  down  three  or  four  times  because  I 
was  looking  over  the  audience  for  Lena  and  missed 
a  cue. 

That  job  lasted  almost  through  the  season,  but 
the  soldier  came  back  in  March.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  as  glad  to  see  him  as  his  mother  was.  While 
I  was  there,  I  tried  to  forget  all  the  music  we  played 
and  to  be  careful  not  to  slip  into  careless  ways,  but 
if  it  had  not  been  for  my  piano  at  home,  I  should 
have  gone  crazy. 

AFTER  loafing  awhile,  I  received  a  letter  from  Sig- 
nor  Grazzoni  saying  that  a  friend  of  his,  a  soprano, 
desired  an  accompanist  for  a  series  of  concerts. 
That  cheered  ine  up  considerably,  and  after  trying 

212 


ERASERS 

out  with  Madame  Larrano  and  her  flute-player,  I 
was  engaged. 

Why  will  men  play  flutes? 

The  only  thing  that  troubled  me  was  that  I  had 
to  be  on  the  road  several  weeks  at  a  time  and  was 
obliged  to  leave  father  alone.  I  mailed  my  address 
to  him  every  night,  so  that  he  could  relay  any  word 
from  Lena. 

The  first  concert  was  in  Portland  and  the  flute- 
player  had  a  sore  throat  and  could  n't  appear.  I 
played  the  flute  cadenzas  on  the  piano  and  Ma 
dame  was  delighted  that  things  went  as  smoothly 
as  they  did.  I  could  never  understand  why  a  so 
prano  should  stop  a  song  and  play  "follow  my 
leader"  for  five  minutes  with  a  flute.  Imagine  a 
basso  profundo  stopping  right  in  the  middle  of 
something  to  grunt  against  a  tuba  for  a  while. 

The  next  stop  was  Lynn,  Massachusetts,  and 
the  hall  was  crowded .  Madame  received  a  splendid 
ovation  and  the  first  few  numbers  went  well,  but 
my  luck  was  on  the  job.  The  piano  was  a  concert 
grand,  slightly  out  of  tune,  and,  of  course,  the  lid 
was  raised  halfway  up.  In  the  middle  of  the  fourth 
selection,  I  looked  up  at  Madame  who  was  holding 
a  high  note  and  I  saw  her  arm  was  thrown  back, 

213 


INDELIBLE 

with  her  finger-tips  resting  on  the  edge  of  the 
piano. 

Everything  turned  black  with  yellow  spots  and 
the  high  note  stopped  with  a  gurgle.  I  had  Ma 
dame  by  the  arm,  trying  to  pull  her  away  from  the 
piano.  The  audience  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  it.  Most  of  them  laughed,  and  Madame  Larrano 
flew  at  me  and  swore  black  and  blue  in  Italian.  I 
could  n't  go  on  for  ten  minutes  and  then  I  had  to 
have  the  piano  lid  down. 

That  was  the  end  of  my  tour  and  now  I  am  out 
of  work  again. 

I  was  unstrung  for  quite  a  while,  but  I  have 
started  practicing  again.  Bill  Milliken,  who  is 
handy  with  tools,  has  put  a  silver  screw  into  the 
post  which  holds  up  the  lid  of  my  own  piano,  so 
that  it  cannot  fall.  I  always  try  it  before  I  play,  to 
see  if  it  is  firm. 

I  ASKED  Mr.  Flynn's  advice  about  starting  to 
teach  and  he  advised  my  getting  a  studio  in  some 
small  city  away  from  home. 

"A  prophet  is  without  honor  in  his  own  coun 
try,"  he  said. 

As  soon  as  I  get  another  position  and  save 
214 


enough  money  to  fit  up  a  studio,  I  am  going  to  fol 
low  his  advice. 

I  PLAYED  one  of  Liszt's  Rhapsodies  for  father 
the  other  evening.  He  said  if  he  had  a  new 
thousand-dollar  piano,  he  would  go  easy  with  it. 
Miss  Stoddard  said  he  was  fit  for  stratagems  and 
plots. 

"I  can  trim  you  a  game  of  seven-up,  anyway," 
he  remarked. 

IF  there  was  anything  to  heredity,  I  would  be 
world's  champion  on  the  Jew's-harp. 

THINGS  are  going  very  badly.  I  have  been  out  of 
work  since  the  tour  with  Madame  Larrano  and  I 
cannot  get  enough  money  to  start  teaching  in  an 
other  town.  Bill  Milliken  made  a  sign  for  me: 

SAMUEL  GRAYDON 
TEACHER  OF  PIANO  AND  HARMONY 

The  women  will  not  send  their  children  here  on  ac 
count  of  my  being  a  jailbird.  The  older  boys  and 
girls  will  not  practice  and  want  to  play  nothing  but 

215 


INDELIBLE 

popular  songs.  I  have  a  few  pupils,  but  they  are 
mostly  poor,  so  I  do  not  charge  them  much.  One 
little  Armenian  boy  works  hard  and  can  play  the 
scale  of  C  without  a  break.  He  will  do  well. 

All  the  jobs  in  theaters  or  movies  are  being  given 
to  the  service  men,  so  I  am  out  of  that.  Prohibition 
has  ruined  all  the  cafes  and  the  musicians  who  used 
to  play  for  the  cabarets  are  out  of  work.  I  seem  to 
be  too  nervous  for  concert  work,  but  perhaps  I  will 
outgrow  it. 

Horrible  thoughts  come  to  me  at  times.  I  do  not 
know  where  they  come  from.  The  other  night,  I 
said  to  myself,  "I  would  feel  better  if  I  knew  Lena 
was  dead.'*  Why  do  such  things  go  through  my 
mind,  when  I  would  give  my  life  for  her? 

Father  is  rather  feeble  and  is  despondent  lately 
because  Daisy  died.  As  long  as  she  was  able  to  plod 
along  to  the  carpet-cleaning  shop,  father  would  go 
there  and  work  awhile  every  day.  Now,  the  shop  is 
rotting  and  father  sits  around  the  house  or  putters 
in  the  yard.  He  takes  it  very  hard. 

I  think  I  should  give  up  music  and  try  to  work  at 
something  else,  but  I  cannot  seem  to  get  started. 
What  can  I  do?  My  eyesight  is  not  quite  good 
enough  for  a  chauffeur,  arithmetic  is  like  Greek  to 

216 


ERASERS 

me,  and  my  handwriting  is  slow  but  sure.    The 
writing  would  do,  if  it  were  not  for  the  blots. 

FOR  the  last  few  weeks  I  have  been  dreaming  al 
most  every  night  and  it  takes  away  all  iny  energy. 


ETHEL'S  HAND 

ONE  evening  as  I  was  walking  past  Ethel  Good 
man's  house,  she  came  to  the  door  and  asked  me  to 
come  in.  Ethel  is  nearly  handsome  now,  but  she 
dresses  severely  and  is  head  over  heels  in  Socialism 
or  Woman  Suffrage. 

"Sam,"  she  began,  "I  hate  to  see  you  moping 
around  like  this.  I  know  how  hard  you  were  hit, 
but  you  must  n't  lie  down  and  quit.  Buck  up !  You 
need  a  little  female  society." 

She  came  over  and  straightened  my  necktie.  I 
never  could  tie  a  four-in-hand. 

"It  would  n't  be  fair  to  a  girl,"  I  said.  "You 
know  my  reputation." 

"Bosh!"  Ethel  came  back.  "What  do  I  care 
about  that !  I  would  n't  give  a  snap  for  a  man  who 
had  n't  sowed  his  wild  oats." 

She  thinks  I  am  a  rounder,  by  the  way  she  talks, 
and  it  seems  to  please  her. 

"What  if  you  did  get  pinched!"  she  continued. 
"Some  of  the  finest  and  most  courageous  men  in 
this  country  are  in  jail  right  now." 

I  told  her  she  was  very  kind,  and  so  she  was,  but 
218 


ERASERS 

I  warned  her  that  the  Social  Circle  would  put  her 
on  the  blacklist,  and  a  girl's  most  precious  thing  is 
her  reputation. 

"Chuck  it,"  said  Ethel. 

"Besides,  it  would  be  unfair  in  other  ways.  I 
could  never  love  any  one  but  Lena." 

It  seemed  as  if  I  must  tell  my  troubles  to  some 
one.  I  sat  beside  Ethel  and  told  the  whole 
story  and  she  was  as  sympathetic  as  could  be.  It 
did  n't  seem  wrong  to  hold  her  hand,  and  after  a 
while,  I  enjoyed  having  her  knee  rub  against  mine 
once  in  a  while,  although  I  knew  she  did  n't  mean 
any  harm. 

"Sam,"  she  said,  when  I  had  finished,  "I  know 
just  where  I  fit.  I  have  learned  something  since  I 
took  up  suffrage  and  I  am  no  longer  content  to  sit 
around  and  crochet  all  my  life.  I  am  lonesome  half 
the  time,  but  the  line  of  talk  the  boys  here  in  Clif- 
tondale  have  gives  me  the  Willies." 

"I  am  not  exactly  what  you  would  call  a  Daniel 
Webster,"  I  remarked. 

"  No,  but  there  is  something  fine  about  you  that 
appeals  to  a  woman,"  Ethel  said. 

I  knew  it  was  all  rot,  but  it  made  me  feel  quite 
warm  and  comfortable  at  the  time. 

219 


INDELIBLE 

'*  You  and  I  must  be  pals,"  she  went  on.  "I  love 
music  and  it  does  n't  all  go  over  my  head,  although 
I  gave  up  playing  long  ago.  Now  you  come  and 
see  me  when  you  feel  like  it.  If  we  want  to  go  out, 
it  '11  be  Dutch,  because  I  know  you  are  up  against 
it  and  I  am  making  good  money  teaching  domestic 
science." 

That  made  me  blush,  for  I  am  very  sensitive 
about  money,  but  she  was  so  in  earnest  and  so  de 
cent,  I  did  n't  mind  at  all.  She  told  me  I  needed 
exercise  and  we  arranged  to  go  walking  Thursday 
night.  When  I  looked  at  the  clock,  it  was  mid 
night,  and  I  came  within  an  ace  of  kissing  her  when 
I  said  "Good-night,"  but  she  looked  straight  up  at 
me  with  her  clear,  blue  eyes,  and  held  out  her  hand, 
just  like  a  pal.  Her  hair  is  golden  and  has  a  way  of 
blowing  little  stray  locks  across  my  face  when  I 
stand  close  to  her. 

I  never  saw  Ethel  look  so  well. 

THURSDAY  night,  it  snowed,  and  Ethel  suggested 
we  call  on  Miss  Stoddard,  of  whom  she  is  quite 
fond.  That  suited  me  first-rate. 

Miss  Stoddard  was  reading  a  book  by  a  Russian 
whose  name  is  beyond  recall  and  asked  Ethel  if  she 

220 


ERASERS 

liked  it.  I  think  Ethel  did  not,  for  she  said  some 
thing  about  "brutal  realism."  Then  they  talked 
about  a  lot  of  Swedes  I  had  never  heard  of,  and 
Miss  Stoddard  gave  me  a  story  called  "Asra"  by  a 
square-head  named  Strindberg.  It  looks  kind  of 
dry,  but  Miss  Stoddard  said  it  would  do  me  good, 
and  Ethel  blushed  just  the  least  bit. 

Then  we  talked  about  the  Peace  Conference, 
and  Miss  Stoddard  said  they  would  be  at  each 
other's  throats  again  before  the  spoils  were  divided 
up.  I  said  the  fourteen  points  would  keep  the 
world  free  from  war  and  that  the  United  States 
would  prevent  the  others  from  robbing  the  small, 
unprotected  nations. 

"Chuck  it,"  said  Ethel. 

They  don't  seem  to  take  much  stock  in  the  news 
papers  and  they  said  the  capitalists  were  lying 
about  the  Bolsheviki. 

"  Well,  a  woman  is  n't  safe  in  Russia,  at  any  rate," 
I  remarked.  "They  are  forced  into  free  love." 

"Sam  was  always  fond  of  Russian  fairy  tales," 
Miss  Stoddard  said. 

Most  of  the  talk  was  over  my  head  and  it  made 
me  ashamed  of  myself.  I  have  decided  I  will  read 
about  what  is  going  on  in  the  world. 


INDELIBLE 

Miss  Stoddard  made  some  tea  and  we  had  ani 
mal  crackers  with  it,  just  as  we  did  years  ago  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  Then  Ethel  started  me  talk 
ing  about  music  and  I  warmed  up  right  away. 
They  listened  attentively  to  all  I  had  to  say  and 
treated  me  like  a  prophet  or  something,  but  when  I 
talk  politics  or  books,  they  treat  me  like  a  child. 

Well,  you  can't  play  every  instrument  in  the 
band,  but  you  ought,  at  least,  to  be  able  to  arrange 
music  for  them. 

We  had  a  pleasant  evening.  Just  like  old  times, 
and  when  I  saw  the  snow  on  the  fields  and  trees,  as 
we  walked  back  to  Ethel's  house,  it  reminded  me 
of  the  "moujiks"  and  sleigh-bells  I  loved  to  hear 
about  when  I  was  a  boy. 

I  sat  with  Ethel  awhile  and  her  knee  rubbed  mine 
once  or  twice.  Toward  the  last,  I  held  mine  close  to 
her,  so  it  happened  oftener.  When  she  stood  up  to 
go  to  the  door  with  me,  a  haircomb  fell  down  the 
back  of  her  waist.  She  could  n't  reach  it,  and  said, 
"Fish  it  out,  Sam,  like  a  good  fellow." 

The  warm  touch  of  her  back  seemed  to  stay 
with  me  half  the  night  and  make  me  feverish. 

Ethel  is  a  good  pal,  and  I  am  restless  evenings 
when  I  do  not  see  her. 

222 


ERASERS 

FRED  ELDRIDGE  got  me  a  job  in  the  railroad  sta 
tion,  selling  tickets,  checking  baggage,  and  build 
ing  fires.  It  does  n't  pay  much,  because  there  are 
only  two  or  three  trains  a  day  on  the  branch,  since 
the  war. 

I  have  plenty  of  time  to  read  and  I  take  the 
books  as  Miss  Stoddard  recommends.  I  am  having 
a  hard  struggle,  but  it  comes  easier  every  time. 
There  is  a  book  called  "Fathers  and  Sons,"  by  a 
Russian  named  "Turgenev."  It  is  about  a  couple 
of  young  men,  one  a  doctor,  who  go  around  visit 
ing  their  immoral  parents  and  a  lot  of  nuts.  One 
is  a  Nihilist,  but  he  catches  the  fever  and  dies  be 
fore  anything  serious  happens.  You  might  as  well 
write  a  book  about  Cliftondale,  for  all  the  excite 
ment  there  was,  except  for  one  duel.  One  of  the 
fathers  lived  with  his  hired  girl  who  had  a  baby.  If 
it  happened  in  this  town,  she  would  be  fired  quick, 
and  he  would  have  to  move  if  he  was  a  deacon. 
There  must  be  something  to  all  this  talk  about  free 
love  in  Russia. 

Before  I  read  the  book,  I  thought  a  Nihilist  was  a 
man  who  bombed  the  Czar  or  a  bank,  but  it  seems 
a  Nihilist  is  a  person  who  does  n't  believe  a  thing 
he  hears.  I  am  pretty  close  to  that  myself. 

223 


INDELIBLE 

Ethel  is  reading  a  book  called  "Poor  People," 
by  Dostoievsky.  I  picked  it  up  while  she  was  get 
ting  ready  to  go  out  the  other  day,  and  all  I  could 
make  of  it  was  a  couple  of  foreigners  writing  letters 
to  each  other  about  the  rent.  I  guess  the  high  cost 
of  living  hits  them  in  Russia  as  well  as  free  love. 

ANOTHER  summer  has  passed,  and  I  am  still  super 
intendent  of  the  Clif  tondale  railroad  station.  Once 
in  a  while,  when  I  get  a  chance  to  play  somewhere, 
father  spells  me.  Most  of  the  people  laugh  at  me 
because  I  am  a  station  agent  after  going  through 
the  Conservatory.  Jack  Foley  is  making  good 
money  playing  the  fiddle  with  a  burlesque  troupe 
and  Hazel  is  on  one  of  the  big  circuits  with  the 
Six  Musical  Samsons. 

Every  day  I  practice  and  keep  up  my  technique, 
so  that  I  will  be  ready  to  take  advantage  of  the 
first  opportunity. 

ETHEL  and  I  went  to  Symphony  to  hear  Sophie 
Braslau  and  it  has  broken  me  all  up  again.  Her 
first  encore  was  "Eili,  Eili."  We  sat  in  the  center 
of  the  middle  section  and  I  could  n't  get  out,  so 
I  nearly  suffocated.  I  did  not  sleep  a  wink  that 

224 


ERASERS 

night.  For  days  afterward,  I  thought  I  saw  Lena 
and  Mary  in  the  car  windows  as  they  passed  the 
station.  I  watch  every  one  of  them. 
Shall  I  ever  be  happy  again? 

I  AM  in  more  trouble  than  Don  Juan  and  have  not 
had  one  tenth  of  the  pleasure.  Moliere  wrote  Don 
Juan,  but  I  do  not  think  much  of  it.  The  charac 
ters  walk  in,  say  what  they  have  to  say,  and  walk 
right  out  again.  That's  all  there  is  to  it. 

One  evening,  the  air  was  warm  and  there  were 
millions  of  stars  that  shine  only  in  late  September. 
Ethel  tapped  at  my  window  about  seven  o'clock 
and  walked  right  in.  I  was  playing  the  Chopin  F 
minor  scherzo  and  the  music  excited  me.  Ethel 
seemed  very  thoughtful  and  quiet. 

We  walked  through  a  lane  in  the  woods,  where 
the  moonlight  makes  brown  and  cream  patchwork 
through  the  leaves,  and  sat  on  an  old  bench  by  the 
road,  after  walking  a  mile  or  so.  We  talked  of 
music  and  other  things,  and  as  Ethel  leaned  for 
ward,  a  lock  of  hair  blew  across  my  face.  I  reached 
for  it  at  the  same  time  she  did,  and  our  hands  met. 
Her  knee  touched  mine  and  I  felt  that  tingle  all 
through  me.  Her  lips  were  close  and  I  could  feel 

225 


INDELIBLE 

her  warm  breath.  I  kissed  her  and  crushed  her  in 
my  arms  and  held  her  as  tight  as  I  could.  She 
nestled  close  and  was  very  still  a  moment.  Then 
she  sprung  up  quick  and  said  we  must  keep  on 
walking.  I  wanted  to  stay.  All  I  could  think  of 
was  to  feel  her  straining  against  me. 

We  walked  back  a  short  distance  and  she  got  a 
stone  in  her  shoe.  She  sat  on  the  moss,  in  the  back 
part  of  the  Gotts'  yard  and  I  unlaced  her  shoe, 
which  was  a  high  one.  When  it  slipped  off  and  I 
felt  her  warm  foot  in  my  hand,  I  lost  all  my  senses. 
We  came  together,  arms  open,  and  she  was  almost 
faint. 

Flash  came  a  light  in  our  faces,  and  old  man 
Gott  said  "  What 's  this?  "  He  had  heard  the  noise 
and  thought  somebody  was  stealing  his  pumpkins. 

There  we  were,  on  the  ground,  Ethel's  hair  down, 
one  shoe  off.  We  went  away  without  saying  a  word 
and  Ethel  cried  and  ran  straight  into  the  house  as 
soon  as  we  arrived. 

WHAT  ever  caused  me  to  do  such  a  thing?  I  could 
never  love  any  one  but  Lena.  Now  the  story  will  be 
all  over  town. 

There  is  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  is  to  marry 
226 


ERASERS 

Ethel.  How  can  I  support  her?  She  makes  more 
money  than  I  do.  Whenever  I  think  about  it,  the 
blood  rushes  to  my  head  and  I  feel  that  warm  foot 
in  my  hand. 

The  next  day,  I  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Simp 
son  saying  that  she  had  decided  it  was  best  that 
her  daughter,  Ruth,  discontinue  her  piano  lessons. 
Ruth  is  fifteen,  and  one  of  my  best  pupils.  They 
live  next  door  to  the  Gotts. 

I  THOUGHT  the  only  fair  thing  to  do  was  to  pro 
pose  to  Ethel  and  I  went  to  her  house  with  that  in 
tention.  She  answered  the  door  and  looked  a  trifle 
pale,  but  otherwise  self-possessed.  I  kept  her  hand 
when  she  shook  hands  with  me,  and  stammered 
something  about  trying  to  make  her  happy,  and  to 
my  great  surprise,  she  jerked  away  and  said: 

"Chuck  it,  Sam." 

I  was  bewildered  and  she  told  me  to  sit  down. 

"I'm  going  to  lay  all  the  cards  on  the  table, 
Sam,"  she  went  on.  "I  don't  know  where  you  got 
your  reputation  as  a  bad  man,  but  as  a  betrayer  of 
maidens,  you  leave  much  to  be  desired. 

"Now,  get  this  straight.  I  love  you,  Sam,  and  I 
have  been  hoping  all  the  while  you  would  forget 

227 


INDELIBLE 

that  lady  of  the  raven  tresses  and  take  a  blonde  for 
better  or  for  worse.  There  was  n't  any  stone  in  my 
shoe  last  night,  and  I  have  been  wearing  haircombs 
loose  for  six  months. 

"Any  time  after  next  January  that  you  take  a 
notion  to  marry  me,  I'll  come  in  my  kimono  to 
save  time,  but  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  talked 
into  it  by  these  Bible-thumpers  all  around  us,  and, 
furthermore,  I  'm  not  going  to  trap  you  into  it  with 
a  neat  little  instep  or  a  loose  shirt-waist. 

"Now,  for  God's  sake,  play  something." 


AFTERGLOWS 

Crackling  flames  in  an  open  grate,  leaping  to  de 
vour — 

Tang  of  pine  smoke  whets  their  savagery. 
Fagots  shrink  and  crumble, 

Fagots  disappear. 
Then  the  still,  tense  afterglow,  breathing,  shimmering, 

dying. 

Nothing  of  the  flame's  rapacity. 
Warm  hearth  pulses  deepest  for  a  while  before  it 
chills. 

Flaming  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  darting  to  con 
sume. 

Agonies  of  mist  shapes  whet  their  thirst. 
Soft  clouds  writhe  and  shrivel, 

Weak  clouds  disappear. 
Then  the  deep,  pure  afterglow,  dimming,  promising, 

comforting. 

Nothing  of  the  sun's  rapacity. 
Evening  shows  most  beauteous,  just  before  it 
fades. 

229 


INDELIBLE 

Blood  red  leaves  in  an  autumn  wood,  dare  the  fatal 

frost. 

Cries  of  fleeing  birds  inflame  their  insolence. 
Branches  brush  and  shake  and  swayy 

First  leaves  spiral  earthward. 
Then  the  softer  tints  appear,  soothing,  changing, 

blending. 

Nothing  of  the  fool's  audacity. 
Autumn  robes  most  peacefully,  just  before  she 
dies. 


THE  WIND  CHANGES 

THE  Cliftondale  railroad  station  is  not  the  worst 
place  in  the  world,  if  you  have  eyes  to  see  things.  I 
have  just  been  fitted  with  double  lens  glasses,  so  I 
can  see  at  a  distance  through  the  top,  and  am  able 
to  read  when  I  look  down.  What  a  lot  of  sights 
I  have  been  missing! 

In  front  of  the  window  are  the  woods'  chang 
ing  colors.  Ruddy  oaks,  solemn  pines,  and  yellow 
flash  of  birches.  Each  tree  has  its  own  way  to  live. 
Each  tree  has  its  own  way  to  die. 

How  many  things  there  are  to  think  about! 

Some  day,  it  seems  to  me,  there  will  be  a  wed 
ding  of  sounds  and  colors.  How  much  alike  they 
are!  What  could  crimson  be  but  the  sharp  edge  of 
a  blare  of  brass?  What  could  thunder  mean  but 
glossy  blue?  Have  you  never  heard  soft  horns  and 
wood-winds  at  sunset?  Is  there  no  affinity  between 
a  moth's  wing  and  the  dusted  tone  of  a  viola? 
Wliat  has  dusk  to  do  with  contralto?  Do  you  jest 
when  you  hear  the  G  string  of  a  violin?  There  are 
many  partners.  Weird  starlight  and  the  oboe, 
dominos  and  saxophones,  mischief  and  staccato, 

231 


INDELIBLE 

Have  you  never  heard  a  bassoon  laugh?  Are  you 
shocked  when  a  trumpet  swears?  My  thoughts 
will  not  be  still. 

On  the  other  side  is  the  great  salt  marsh,  worm- 
eaten  by  tortuous  creeks  and  rivers.  Water  birds 
in  terror.  Very  few.  Sports  in  brand-new  hunting 
togs,  banging  at  the  air.  Too  many. 

I  wonder  if  there's  one  whole  bird  apiece. 

What  can  a  grown  man  see  in  such  a  game?  Cold 
feet,  scratched  hands,  fat  stomachs  wobbling;  breath 
short,  legs  weak,  rubber  boots  sloshing. 

Down  in  the  sand  is  a  forlorn  little  bird  standing 
on  one  leg,  thinking.  It  weighs  two  ounces. 

Flat,  belly-down  in  the  grass.  Eye  squints,  fin 
ger  shakes.  Bang !  Gun  kicks,  shoulder  aches,  eyes 
peer. 

Down  in  the  sand  is  a  torn  little  bird,  lying  on 
one  side,  gasping.  It  weighs  an  ounce  and  a  half. 

Some  say  't  is  fairer  to  let  him  fly  a  foot  or  two. 

Queer  creatures,  sportsmen. 

I  ALWAYS  make  fun  of  people  silently,  so  as  not  to 
hurt  their  feelings.  Some  day  I  am  going  to  tell 
some  of  the  folks  who  poke  fun  at  me  and  call 
me  "Superintendent"  and  "Paderewski,"  all  the 

232 


ERASERS 

thoughts  which  have  come  to  me  concerning  them, 
while  I  have  sat  in  this  one-horse  railroad  station. 
Well,  here  comes  the  afternoon  train. 

STRANGE,  flashing  faces  in  car  windows.  How  I 
hope  Lena  will  be  there!  But  she  never  is.  Why 
does  she  not  write  to  me,  if  she  is  safe  and  alive?  I 
cannot  believe  she  would  leave  me  this  way.  What 
did  her  sorrow  drive  her  to?  She  would  stop  at 
nothing  in  a  rage. 

There  goes  Ethel  in  her  tailored  suit.  How 
briskly  she  walks!  How  her  golden  hair  flutters 
contemptuously  at  the  folks  who  stare  at  her! 
She  is  not  afraid  of  life. 

Maybe  that 's  the  answer.  Take  what  comes  and 
plough  ahead.  How  can  Lena  overcome  her  cruel 
handicap?  Beethoven  composed  his  loftiest  after 
he  was  robbed  of  his  hearing,  but  to  play  the  violin 
without  fingers.  All  the  gameness  in  the  world 
could  never  get  the  best  of  that. 

Well,  I  have  decided  if  I  do  not  hear  from  her 
this  year,  I  will  marry  Ethel,  and  lucky  I  will  be 
for  such  a  girl  to  have  me. 

As  I  was  turning  these  things  over  in  my  mind,  I 

233 


INDELIBLE 

saw  father  coming  down  the  road,  in  a  hurry,  with 
something  in  his  hand. 

"A  letter  for  you,  Sam.  It  looks  important. 
Postmarked 'Paris/" 

My  heart  jumped  and  stopped  and  my  hand| 
shook  so  I  could  hardly  get  it  open.  The  feeling  of 
it  seemed  to  say  my  luck  had  changed. 

MONSIEUR  SAMUEL  GBAYDON 

Cliftondale,  Mass. 
MY  DEAR  M.  GRAYDON: 

I  have  obtained  your  address  from  our  mutual  friends 
at  the  Conservatory  and  take  the  liberty  of  addressing 
you. 

In  a  week,  I  sail  for  America  and  have  been  booked,  as 
you  call  it,  for  an  extensive  concert  tour,  together  with 
Madame  Alice  Petersen.  The  Bureau  has  asked  me  to 
select  my  accompanist  and  make  the  preliminary  ar 
rangements.  Remembering  your  excellent  work  when 
last  we  met,  and  the  high  regard  with  which  you  are  held 
by  the  faculty  of  the  Conservatory,  I  am  writing  to  en 
quire  if  you  would  care  to  accompany  me, 

I  am  sure,  hi  case  you  accept,  that  the  matter  of  re 
muneration  may  be  easily  settled.  We  need  not  talk  of 
this. 

Address  me,  care  of  the  Welkmann  Bureau,  at  New 
York. 

I  am  looking  forward  to  your  acceptance  and  hope  you 
are  not  otherwise  engaged  for  the  season. 

J.  THIEOH 


ERASERS 

THTHON!  I  slapped  father  on  the  back  and  read  it 
to  him,  laughing  aloud  when  I  came  to  that  part 
about  being  "otherwise  engaged."  If  Jacques 
could  have  seen  me  shoveling  coal  into  that  pot 
bellied  old  stove  when  he  wrote  it,  he  would  have 
left  that  out. 

I  shall  have  to  polish  up  that  dress-suit  of  mine. 
I  may  not  be  much  for  looks,  but  he  won't  catch 
me  asleep  on  "repeat"  marks. 

"I  wonder  if  that  Frenchman  can  play  the  Sail 
or's  Hornpipe  like  old  four-fingered  Joe  Plaisted 
used  to,  up  in  Milford,"  father  said. 

Ethel  said,  "You  had  it  coming,  Sam." 

WHEN  a  cloud  turns  its  silver  lining  to  earth,  I 
wonder  if  the  dark  side  shows  ugly  to  heaven. 


PART  IV:  EEASERS 


PART  IV:  ERASERS 
THE  REVERE  HOUSE 

LENA  fought  like  a  demon.  Nurses  and  attendants 
were  tossed  and  kicked  and  bitten  and  not  until 
the  surgeon  reluctantly  applied  the  merciful  needle 
could  she  be  quieted.  Doctors  called  a  hurried 
consultation.  There  were  four  who  looked  gravely 
at  the  bleeding  fingers  and  three  shook  their  heads 
brusquely,  professionally.  The  fourth,  an  older 
man,  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"But  she  is  a  violinist,"  he  said,  almost  in  tears. 
"Why  could  she  not  have  crushed  a  leg?" 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  Lena  was 
wheeled,  half  stupefied,  to  the  operating-room. 
The  ether  cone  was  applied  and  she  plunged 
through  roaring  space  to  a  land  of  quiet,  for  a  time. 
The  ends  of  two  slender  fingers  were  amputated 
from  the  hands  of  an  artist. 

SHE  recovered  consciousness  and  looked  dumbly 
about.  The  watching  nurse  scented  trouble  and 
called  the  head  nurse.  Up  sat  Lena,  staring  at  the 

239 


INDELIBLE 

bandaged  hand,  and  a  cry  rang  through  the  ward 
that  haunted  suffering  ears  for  days  and  nights. 
Deathly  sick  from  the  ether,  she  fought  feebly. 
Morning  came.  She  strengthened,  and  by  noon 
they  could  hold  her  no  longer.  The  doctor  gave  in, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  Lena  departed  in  a  blue 
silk  dress  with  slippers  to  match. 

In  the  room  at  Joy  Street  she  found  Mary,  pros 
trate  with  grief.  Mary  had  watched  by  the  dim 
window  all  night  long  and  had  learned  the  awful 
truth  from  the  Conservatory  in  the  morning. 

Lena  said  not  a  word.  She  tore  off  the  blue  silk 
dress  roughly  and  threw  it  aside.  She  kicked  off 
the  slippers  to  match.  From  the  closet  she  selected 
her  plaid  skirt  with  the  little  slit  in  the  side,  and 
a  thin,  flimsy  waist.  Silent  as  death,  she  dressed 
again. 

Mary's  eyes  grew  wide  with  fright.  "Where  are 
you  going?"  she  cried. 

"I'm  going  away  for  good,"  said  Lena. 

Mary  wept  piteously  and  begged  her  to  lie  down 
and  rest.  Lena  continued  dressing,  laboriously, 
wincing  with  pain  from  her  bandaged,  throbbing 
hand,  pale  from  the  fumes  of  ether.  The  high- 
heeled  shoes  slipped  on.  Lena  started  for  the 

240 


ERASERS 

door.  Mary  clasped  her  waist,  sobbing,  entreating, 
frightened  out  of  her  mind.  She  fell  to  the  floor* 
clasping  Lena's  knees,  and  swooned  as  Lena 
pushed  herself  clear. 

Out  into  the  June  evening  went  Lena. 

IN  front  of  the  old  Revere  House  was  a  bubbling- 
watering-trough.  At  the  close  of  a  long,  weary 
day  in  the  shafts  of  a  rickety  wagon  plodded  an 
old  horse  which  had  no  name.  Sad  Eyes  will  do. 

Sad  Eyes  was  a  Jewish  horse,  with  a  large,  odd- 
shaped  head  and  a  bulging  proboscis.  His  broad, 
limp  ears  flapped  in  jerky  rhythm  as  he  walked. 
His  knees  were  prominent  and  his  gait  eccentric. 
His  worn-down  hoofs  turned  out  in  the  orthodox 
Jewish  walk.  Like  a  huge,  black  bird,  motionless 
on  the  seat,  sat  a  Sheenie  with  a  broad,  flat  derby, 
flapping  coat,  and  straggling  whiskers. 

Sad  Eyes'  limp  ears  stood  almost  erect  as  he 
spied  the  bubbling  watering- trough.  In  this  in 
stance,  he  took  the  initiative  and  stopped  to 
quench  his  thirst. 

APPROACHING  the  Revere  House  from  the  opposite 
direction  a  raven-haired  girl,  with  chalk-white  face 

241 


INDELIBLE 

and  bitter,  black  thoughts  and  a  bandaged  hand, 
walked  without  feeling  the  ground  at  her  feet,  re 
lentlessly.  On  she  came,  her  face  more  white,  her 
thoughts  more  black,  rage  throttling  reason,  tem 
per  lashing  her  with  barbed  thongs. 

By  the  watering-trough  she  glanced  up  and  a 
stifled  cry  escaped.  A  face  looked  gravely  up  at 
her.  A  horse's  face  with  great  reproachful  eyes 
and  patient,  limp  ears  and  a  bulging  proboscis. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  face  to  face,  motionless. 

Then  the  black  grotesque  on  the  wagon  seat  took 
up  a  worn  stick.  One  whack,  and  Sad  Eyes  turned. 
Two  whacks,  and  he  gave  three  stiff-legged  hops 
and  trotted  jerkily  away,  leaving  a  raven-haired 
statue  rooted  to  the  spot. 

TEARS  broke  out  in  a  deluge,  but  the  passers-by 
paid  little  heed.  It  was  not  uncommon  to  see  girls 
crying  near  the  old  Revere  House. 

FIVE  minutes  later,  Lena  opened  the  door  and  took 
the  sobbing  Mary  in  her  arms.  They  clung  and 
sobbed  the  long  night  through  with  different 
sorts  of  prayers. 


SINS  OF  THE  FATHERS 

IN  the  concert  hall  of  the  Conservatory,  on  the 
night  of  the  ill-fated  recital,  sat  Jacob  Levine,  the 
prosperous  Jew,  eagerly  awaiting  the  appearance 
of  his  old  friend's  daughter,  Lena.  Jacob  had  done 
well  and  multiplied  his  talents  in  a  way  which 
should  win  the  highest  approbation  from  the 
Powers  that  Be  when  the  chips  are  cashed  hi  at  the 
Bank  of  Judgment.  No  longer  does  Jacob  reside  in 
the  drab  North  End.  He  has  a  swell  place  in  Rox- 
bury  and  a  touring-car  and  sits  in  at  directors' 
meetings. 

On  one  side  was  his  faithful,  fat  Rebecca,  re 
splendent  in  diamond  ear-rings,  jeweled  fingers, 
and  a  hundred-dollar  gown  with  a  button  missing 
in  the  back.  To  his  left  sat  a  healthy,  tanned  young 
man  in  a  uniform  with  a  proud  YD  on  the  sleeve 
and  three  service  stripes. 

As  Lena  has  waxed  beautiful  and  approached 
the  completion  of  her  course,  Jacob  has  formulated 
hopeful  plans  concerning  that  young  man  and  the 
raven-haired  maiden.  It  would  be  nice  to  hear  the 

243 


INDELIBLE 

fiddle  now  and  then,  if  the  children  did  not  keep 
her  busy. 

The  group  just  mentioned  did  not  sense  the 
strained  atmosphere.  Student  after  student  strug 
gled  through  their  parts,  half-heartedly.  The  au 
dience  could  not  see  faint  bloodstains  on  the  lid  of 
the  piano.  The  end  dragged  on  and  Jacob  looked 
worried.  What  had  happened?  He  made  loud  in 
quiries  out  back  and  learned  the  truth  to  his  dis 
may. 

He  drove  to  the  ominous  hospital,  clucking  at 
moans  from  Rebecca  and  "S.O.L.'s"  from  the  vet 
eran  son.  They  did  not  gain  admittance.  He  called 
the  next  day  and  received  perfunctory  news.  On 
the  morning  following,  he  found  that  Lena  had  de 
parted  and  he  threw  business  to  the  winds.  Before 
a  Joy  Street  house,  his  touring-car,  off-color  but 
expensive,  rolled  up.  His  face  was  symbolic  of 
lament. 

LENA  and  Mary  are  aroused  by  a  knock  and  open 
to  Jacob.  His  head  rocks  with  heartfelt  sympathy, 
his  tongue  clucks  in  the  same  old  way. 

Poor  Leijinke !  She  must  come  to  live  with  him 
and  his  Rebecca.  Lena  does  not  know  what  to  do. 

£44 


ERASERS 

She  is  in  a  dazed  reaction.  She  cannot  leave  Mary 
and  she  will  not,  of  that  she  is  sure. 

Jacob  has  an  open  heart  and  home.  Mary,  of 
course,  shall  come  too.  What  can  two  old  folks 
with  a  young  rascal  of  a  son  do  with  such  a  big 
house?  There  is  plenty  room.  They  will  be  so  com 
fortable.  Leijinke  must  rest. 

The  sobbing  Italian  girl  consents  to  any  thing  that 
will  not  separate  her  from  Lena.  The  factory  where 
she  works  is  not  too  far  from  Roxbury.  A  hasty 
gathering  of  their  scant  belongings,  a  quick  fare 
well  to  the  regretful  landlady,  and  they  roll  away. 

THOUGHTS  of  Samuel  crowd  the  long,  sad  day. 
Lena  is  mothered  and  nursed  and  petted  by  the 
fat  Rebecca,  quite  at  ease  in  a  loose  wrapper. 

The  young  man,  Joseph,  is  overjoyed  with  the 
arrangement.  He  has  an  eye  for  beauty.  He  is 
shyly  attentive. 

THAT  night,  the  old  folks  linger  long  together  after 
supper  and  begin  to  plot  at  once.  Of  course,  Lena 
has  no  money,  but  is  she  not  a  good  girl?  Is  she  not 
the  handsomest  of  their  people?  Will  they  not 
make  a  couple  for  sore  eyes? 

245 


INDELIBLE 

FOR  a  few  days,  Lena  does  not  leave  her  bed.  She 
is  stunned.  Gradually  she  regains  her  strength,  and 
her  dominant  energy  asserts  itself.  Jacob  and  Re 
becca  see  no  reason  for  delay. 

Then  the  storm.  A  conversation  replete  with 
rather  broad,  well-meaning  hints. 

"I  do  not  want  to  marry." 

Clucks  of  consternation.  What  girl  does  not 
want  a  fine  home  and  children  to  bring  up?  There 
is  a  half  an  hour  of  reasoning.  At  last  the  truth 
came  out.  Lena's  eyes  blazed, 

"I  love  some  one  else." 

Deep  disappointment  marks  the  faces  of  the  old 
folks.  Timid  questioning.  Who  is  the  man?  What 
is  his  name?  Is  he  a  good  honest  feller? 

"His  name  is  Samuel  Graydon." 

Samuel  sounded  good,  but  Graydon?  What  was 
his  father's  name  in  the  old  country? 

Then  the  bombshell.  "He  is  an  American,  a 
Christian." 

All  the  sad  syllables  of  a  language  made  for  woe. 
Did  she  not  know  the  laws  of  the  Mashtotem?  Had 
the  thing  gone  too  far?  Tell  her  poor  old  Aunt 
Rebecca. 

The  full  significance,  Lena  had  never  faced  be- 
246 


ERASERS 

fore,  in  the  rapture  of  her  music.  She  indignantly 
set  them  right  on  the  extent  to  which  "the  thing 
had  gone."  She  did  not  care  for  laws  or  for  any 
thing  at  all.  She  wanted  to  die. 

Then  the  wails  of  "Her  poor  father,  olov  hasho- 
lorn"  That  she  should  come  to  this.  Had  she  no 
thought  for  her  dear  papa's  memory?  A  goy,  she 
should  marry.  Oi  vay. 

LENA  burst  from  them  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows  of  her  room.  Her  head  ached  and  throbbed 
and  her  injured  fingers  twinged.  Her  father.  She 
had  not  thought  of  that.  All  around  her  head  sped 
vicious  circles  of  misery.  The  Levines  had  played 
their  trump  card  well.  Her  patient  father's  face 
before  her  seemed  to  leave  no  loophole.  She  must 
give  up  Samuel. 

The  rabbi,  who  had  been  called  hastily,  came  to 
her  and  reasoned  with  her.  He  intoned  the  iron 
clad  laws  which  had  survived  years  of  persecution 
and  suffering.  He  told  of  her  duty  to  her  father  and 
her  people.  Should  Mischa  Borof sky's  daughter  be 
an  outcast?  No  response  from  Lena,  and  he  left  her 
alone. 

After  hours,  she  penned  a  tearful  letter,  he* 
247 


INDELIBLE 

father's  stolid  face  before  her,  her  heart  empty  and 
void. 

DEAR  SAMUEL, 

'  My  heart  is  broken.  My  career  is  gone.  I  cannot  love 
you  because  of  the  faith  of  my  father.  The  laws  forbid 
it  and  I  cannot  bring  shame  to  his  name.  He  lived  only 
for  me  and  my  violin.  He  saved  and  planned  for  me  to 
have  my  wish  and  broke  down  working  for  me.  That  is 
all  over.  I  shall  never  be  happy  again,  but  I  must  re 
spect  his  memory,  now  he  is  not  here. 

Good-bye,  Samuel,  I  know  you  will  be  famous.  Do 
not  look  for  me.  Forget  Lena,  but  remember  I  shall 
always  think  of  you  and  shall  never  marry. 

Good-bye 

LENA 

The  tear-stained  letter  was  sealed  with  sobs  and 
placed  with  others  on  the  table  and  Lena  went  back 
to  her  grief  and  her  pillows. 

She  never  knew  that  she  addressed  the  envelope 
"Boston,"  instead  of  "  Cliftondale." 

Every  time  the  mailman  came,  during  her  weeks 
of  convalescence,  Lena's  heart  rose  to  her  white 
throat,  but  there  was  never  an  answer.  How  could 
there  be,  she  thought?  —  she  did  not  tell  him 
where  she  was,  but  she  half  expected  it  and  she  sad 
dened  as  the  weeks  passed  by. 

What  did  Samuel  think  of  her? 


WELL  MEANT 

THERE  was  that  about  Lena  which  warned  young 
Joseph  Levine  to  proceed  with  caution.  He  was  no 
body's  fool,  along  practical  lines,  and  showed  a 
trace  of  clumsy,  masculine  tact  at  times.  Expres 
sions  of  his  parents'  hope  and  desire,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Lena,  he  discouraged  and  subdued.  Hints 
and  obvious  jokes  were  met  with  a  prompt,  "Aw, 
have  a  heart,"  and  a  similar  forceful  request  for 
desistance.  Outside  of  business  hours,  his  mind 
dwelt  quite  steadily  upon  Lena.  He  made  no 
advances,  but  his  heart  was  hers. 

If  he  ventured  to  invite  Lena  to  the  theater,  he 
asked  Mary  to  go  also.  If  the  old  folks  contrived  to 
leave  them  alone,  he  choked  his  desires  and  begged 
her  pardon  for  being  obliged  to  keep  an  engage 
ment  elsewhere,  the  elsewhere  being  Franklin  Park. 
But  the  girl's  beauty  and  the  tragedy  in  her  heavy 
eyes  haunted  him  and  chilled  his  interest  in  other 
eligible  maidens.  He  had  a  single-track  mind. 

In  his  father's  office  he  grew  in  knowledge  and 
importance.  He  had  the  solid  Jewish  traits  of  the 
old  school  and  the  energy  and  over-confidence  bred 

249 


INDELIBLE 

by  a  generation  of  comparative  freedom  and  politi 
cal  equality.  He  was  the  apple  of  his  father's  eye. 
More  and  more  he  took  on  his  young  shoulders,  but 
Rebecca  grew  more  concerned  with  each  departing 
day  about  his  matrimonial  future,  and  she  listened 
every  night  until  he  was  safe  in  his  room. 

It  was  Joseph  who  interceded  in  Lena's  behalf 
when  she  insisted  that  she  go  to  work.  Of  course,  a 
girl  wanted  to  be  doing  something. 

So  Lena  was  installed  as  cash  register  girl  in  one 
of  the  Levine  stores. 

Mary  waited  with  feelings  of  fear  and  anticipa 
tion  for  the  return  of  Pietro  from  France,  but  he 
was  of  the  unfortunates  who  were  sent  to  the  Army 
of  Occupation  and  his  letters  were  few  and  labo 
rious.  Her  savings  grew  a  trifle,  because  the  Le- 
vines  would  not  let  her  pay  her  board.  Was  she 
not  Lena's  best  friend?  Mary  learned  to  love  the 
old  folks  and  even  mastered  pinochle,  to  help  Jacob 
while  away  the  evenings. 

ONE  day,  as  Joseph  was  passing  through  the  recep 
tion  room  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associ 
ation,  after  an  hour  in  the  gymnasium,  he  heard 
weird  noises  emanating  from  what  looked  to  be  a 

250 


ERASERS 

player  piano.  A  whining  violin  played  a  melody 
with  comical  exactness  of  tempo  and  evenness  of 
tone,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  piano  mech 
anism.  Joseph  stood  before  the  instrument,  and 
inside  the  glass  front  he  spied  a  captive  violin, 
screwed  into  place,  with  a  band  of  horsehair 
skipping  uncannily  from  string  to  string.  His  face 
glowed  with  the  radiance  of  a  big  idea. 

He  made  inquiries  about  it.  Would  it  play  any 
tune  at  all?  Sure,  if  you  bought  rolls  enough. 
Where  could  such  wonders  be  obtained?  The  secre 
tary  gave  him  a  New  York  address  and  whatever 
information  was  at  hand. 

Joseph  was  excited.  He  concocted  a  business 
trip  to  New  York,  in  the  midst  of  a  rush  season.  At 
last  his  chance  had  come  to  make  a  hit.  He  found 
the  vendor  of  the  mechanical  violins  and  pianos 
and  selected  the  most  expensive  model.  Immedi 
ate  delivery  was  arranged  for. 

There  were  days  of  mystery  at  the  Levine  home. 
Mama  and  papa  knew  that  a  surprise  for  Lena  was 
in  the  wind,  and  they  tiptoed  around  mischievously . 
Mary  was  not  in  the  secret. 

A  huge  packing-box  arrived  in  Boston  and  Jo 
seph  was  notified.  He  left  the  office  and  personally 

251 


INDELIBLE 

superintended  the  moving  of  it  into  the  house.  The 
boards  were  stripped  away,  and  in  the  corner  of  the 
spacious  living-room  the  new  instrument  was  in 
stalled.  Rebecca  dusted  and  admired  it  and 
hummed  to  herself  all  afternoon.  Before  the  hour 
for  Lena's  arrival,  Jacob,  Rebecca,  and  Joseph 
gathered  happily  in  the  living-room,  chairs  placed 
directly  in  front.  They  waited,  glowing  with  the 
thoughts  of  pleasure  in  store  for  Leijinke.  The 
front  door  opened,  little  heels  clicked  on  the  hard 
wood  floor.  She  arrived  with  polite  greeting. 

Joseph  beamed.  He  had  a  little  surprise  for  her. 
Just  look.  Jacob  pressed  a  button,  according  to 
minute  instructions,  and  a  plaintive  wail  following 
the  general  melodic  structure  of  "Over  There" 
came  from  the  bright  rosewood  piano. 

"Now  you  shall  have  music  any  time,"  said 
Joseph. 

Lena's  face  lost  every  trace  of  color.  She  stood 
terribly  still,  the  wailing  of  the  captive  violin 
sounding  thinner  and  emptier  because  of  the 
breathless  silence  of  them  all.  She  saw  the  hope 
ful,  well-meant,  stupid  faces,  and  tried  with  all  her 
might  to  play  up,  but  she  reeled  and  caught  the  table 
edge  and  staggered  to  her  room  without  a  word. 

252 


ERASERS 

The  beaming  faces  turned  to  woe.  Cold  sweat 
stood  on  Joseph's  brow.  The  enormity  of  his  error 
struck  him  like  a  cold  shower  and  a  lump  rose  in 
his  throat. 

There  was  no  joy  in  the  Levine  household  that 
night  and  the  mechanical  thing  was  wheeled  to  an 
unused  room,  there  to  remain  for  all  time.  With  it 
went  Joseph's  hopes. 

DURING  the  months  which  passed,  Lena  never 
came  to  the  house  without  feeling  a  sense  of  de 
pression  when  she  found  no  mail.  She  lost  weight, 
crowding  desperately  any  thoughts  of  Samuel  from 
her  mind.  Her  eyes  lost  their  brilliancy,  little  by 
little.  The  fire  burned  lower  and  smoldered,  leav 
ing  charred,  hopeless  orbs  fringed  sadly  on  pale 
cheeks.  All  day  she  made  change,  mechanically, 
looking  hostilely  at  every  male  customer  before  he 
had  a  chance  to  make  a  move.  Evenings,  she  sat  in 
her  room,  or  walked  with  Mary. 

But  there  was  no  escape  from  music.  It  came 
through  open  windows,  at  the  restaurant,  the 
theater,  on  the  street.  Music  with  the  inside 
charred  and  smoking  like  a  gutted  building,  swept 
by  flames  of  all  but  gaunt,  bleak  walls, 

253 


INDELIBLE 

Joseph  learned  his  lesson  thoroughly,  and,  one 
evening,  after  Lena  had  quietly  slipped  away  upon 
hearing  a  violin  record  on  the  new  phonograph,  he 
stole  downstairs  after  the  old  folks  had  retired, 
weeded  out  all  the  records  which  seemed  to  include 
that  cursed  instrument,  smashed  two  dozen  disks, 
at  five  dollars  each,  and  threw  them  in  the  ash-can. 
Then  he  returned  sadly  to  bed.  He  would  have  cut 
off  both  vigorous,  husky  arms  close  to  the  shoulder 
to  replace  two  little  finger-ends.  The  largest  sacri 
fice  of  which  he  was  capable,  he  made  unsparingly. 
He  stayed  away  from  Lena.  He  found  excuses,  not 
to  linger,  but  to  go.  Nevertheless,  he  followed  the 
girls  at  a  distance  in  the  dark,  when  they  took 
evening  walks,  to  see  that  no  harm  came  to  them. 
He  felt  his  sorrow  deeply  and  honestly.  His  nature 
was  not  one  to  rage  and  rebel,  but  he  spent  dark 
hours  wondering  what  the  difference  was  between 
people  such  as  Lena  and  people  like  himself.  Why 
should  a  fiddle  matter  so?  He  gave  it  up,  with  the 
piteous  reservations  yearning  human  hearts  will 
cling  to. 


LIKE  A  DAUGHTER 

WINTER  and  summer  made  their  drafts  from 
Lena's  eyes  and  did  not  lift  the  gloom. 

One  September  evening,  Jacob  said  to  Mary: 

"Mary,  Liebchen,  my  partner's  son,  Max  Bloom, 
is  coming  to-night  to  play  pinochle.  We  got  to  pay 
attention  good  because  he  has  been  playing  for  a 
year  with  those  New  York  sharks."  He  pinched 
her  cheek.  It  did  not  take  much  to  bring  a  flush  to 
the  surface. 

In  came  Max,  and  as  he  was  introduced  to  Mary, 
a  shadow  of  surprise  passed  over  his  face.  Mary 
noticed  it,  and  looked  again  more  closely,  then  all 
the  joy  fled  from  her,  leaving  her  deathly  sick. 
They  had  met  before  in  those  frightful  days  she 
tried  so  hard  to  forget. 

The  game  was  a  failure.  Mary  could  not  read 
the  cards.  She  muddled  and  blundered  to  the  con 
sternation  of  Jacob.  Max  played  like  a  booby  and, 
after  a  short  time,  the  game  broke  up  and  he 
went  home.  Mary  threw  herself  across  the  bed, 
face  down,  fully  dressed  and  moaned  and  moaned. 
It  was  Lena's  turn  to  play  the  comforter,  but 

255 


INDELIBLE 

the  stricken  girl  was  too  sick  to  tell  her  of  the 
trouble. 

NEXT  afternoon,  Max  called  on  Jacob  with  a  shame 
faced,  guilty  look.  He  inquired  about  Mary  and 
Lena.  How  did  they  happen  to  live  there?  What 
did  he  know  about  them? 

Jacob  burst  into  extravagant  praise.  Such  good 
girls.  Just  like  daughters.  He  told  then  of  Lena's 
disappointment,  as  he  saw  it,  and  the  incidents 
that  followed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Max?  You  don't  look 
good." 

"Nothing,  Jake,  only  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you 
something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Well,  y'know,  times  have  changed  since  you 
was  a  young  feller  and  a  boy  now  has  got  to  sow  a 
little  oats,  y 'understand." 

Jacob's  head  wagged  regretfully  but  sympathet 
ically. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  Jake,  Mary  used  to  be  a 
sport.  For  money,  y  'know.  I  used  to  see  her  at  the 
old  Revere  House." 

A  storm  of  indignant  protest  from  Jacob.  His 
256 


ERASERS 

excitement  broke  into  harsh  Yiddish.  In  his  unac 
customed  violence,  he  almost  threw  Max  out  of  the 
office.  His  little  Mary  a  sport !  Max  is  mistaken. 
He  must  not  say  such  things.  He  cannot  insult  a 
girl  who  is  just  like  a  daughter.  He  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"I  did  n't  mean  no  harm,  Jake.  Maybe  she's 
respectable  now,  but  on  account  of  Rebecca  and 
Lena,  I  thought  I  ought  to  say  something.  It 's  all 
right  for  girls  to  reform,  y  'know,  but  a  man  must 
be  particular  about  his  own  house.  He's  got  a  wife 
and  children  to  think  of." 

Jacob's  afternoon  was  spoiled.  He  didn't  believe 
it,  but  Max's  evident  sincerity  could  not  be  disre 
garded.  How  could  Jacob  ask  a  girl  such  a  thing? 
His  little  Mary.  He  started  home  slowly.  Mary 
was  there,  unable  to  work  that  day.  Rebecca  was 
busy  with  dinner.  All  the  cooks  and  servants  in  the 
city  could  not  keep  Rebecca  out  of  the  kitchen. 
Jacob's  face  was  a  picture  of  abject  misery.  He 
knocked  on  Mary's  door.  She  opened,  tearful. 
They  made  a  sorry  tableau. 

He  stammered,  "Mary,  Liebchen,  I  was  talking 
to  Max —  "  That  was  enough.  White  crept  under 
the  olive  cheeks.  She  bowed  her  head.  "  I  knew  it 

257 


INDELIBLE 

was  no  use,"  she  said,  and  flung  herself  with  a  crash 
to  the  floor.  Rebecca  heard  the  noise  and  came 
waddling  in.  Jacob's  face  alarmed  her.  What  was 
the  trouble?  Had  Mary  fainted?  Call  the  doctor, 
quick.  Then  Jacob  hastily  explained,  and  Re 
becca  swayed  and  shook  with  horror  at  the  mention 
of  what  she  vaguely  had  been  made  aware  of  by  the 
Old  Testament.  They  rocked  in  despair.  Lena's 
friend !  How  could  she  do  such  a  thing !  Of  course, 
she  would  have  to  go.  Joseph  was  just  that  age. 
There  would  be  trouble. 

In  the  meantime  two  more  figures  had  come 
upon  the  scene.  A  cry  from  Lena  as  she  ran  to 
Mary.  Joseph  stood  still  in  the  doorway.  All  of  a 
sudden,  Lena  sprang  erect,  all  the  old  fire  blazing 
in  her  face.  Fierce,  furious,  utterly  out  of  control 
"So  Mary  must  go!  Very  well,  we  will  both  go! 
Now!  At  once!  Do  you  hear?  Joseph  call  a  taxi! 
Who  said  Mary  was  not  good  enough  for  any 
body?" 

Joseph  tried  to  remonstrate,  once.  The  old  folks 
clung  together  and  sobbed.  Suitcases  were  packed. 
Out  the  girls  went,  Joseph  carrying  the  baggage, 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Lena  supporting  the  half -fainting 
Mary. 

258 


ERASERS 

A  FURNISHED  room  was  found  behind  the  State 
House.  The  girls  said  "Good-bye"  to  Joe,  who 
fingered  his  hat,  helplessly  and  miserably,  feeling 
all  the  blame.  Max  had  told  him  in  the  morning. 
Before  the  drab  door  closed,  he  sought  for  words: 
"Mary,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "don't  hold  this 
against  me.  I  did  n't  say  a  word.  I  don't  think 
nothing  wrong  about  you.  Let  me  be  like  a  brother. 
The  old  people  don't  know  no  better.". 

AND  the  pity  of  it  is,  they  don't. 


THE  APPARITION 

THE  old  Joy  Street  atmosphere  stirred  memories 
in  Lena  she  had  fought  for  months  with  all  her 
will.  Things  did  not  seem  the  same.  Creeds  and 
laws  seemed  far  away.  Nights  she  lay  wide-eyed 
and  the  thoughts  of  Samuel  filled  the  room.  Love, 
for  her,  had  developed  subconsciously,  flashing  in 
one  brief  moment  and  blasted  into  chaos  by  the 
nightmare  following. 

Now  she  felt  as  if  the  dark  was  full  of  suffering, 
not  her  own.  She  knew  a  heart  was  aching  and 
seared.  She  worried  about  Samuel.  What  had  be 
come  of  him?  Had  his  music  fled  from  him?  Were 
snatches  of  harmony  following  him,  mocking  him, 
lurking  in  corners  to  prey  upon  him  if  he  slipped 
and  fell? 

Lena  got  a  job  in  the  factory  with  Mary,  wrap 
ping  tissue  paper  around  tin  cans.  Wrapping, 
pasting,  wrapping,  pasting.  Piece-work.  Ten, 
fifty,  a  hundred.  Endless  rows  of  cans,  endless 
rolls  of  tissue,  endless  smelling  pots  of  paste.  A 
half-hour,  an  hour,  wrapping,  pasting.  Ten, 
twenty,  fifty,  hundred.  Half  the  morning  gone. 

260 


ERASERS 

Her 'fingers  detached  themselves  from  her  brain. 
She  was  not  conscious  of  the  movement  of  her 
arms.  Every  day  dragged.  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  wrapping,  pasting,  wrapping.  Ten, 
twenty,  fifty.  Half  the  week  has  gone. 

Sunday  was  the  worst  of  all.  Where  can  two 
unescorted  girls  go  unmolested? 

All  day  long,  her  mind  was  working  in  a  vicious 
circle,  around,  around,  a  dismal  circle,  and  the  suf 
fering  of  Samuel  found  her  there. 

A  FRIDAY  night,  she  tossed  and  turned  and  memo 
ries  pressed  her  weakening  resistance.  At  last  a 
resolution  formed.  Surely  it  would  do  no  harm  to 
see  him.  Just  to  know  that  he  was  safe.  She  would 
go  to  Cliftondale  after  dark  and  find  his  house. 
Perhaps  she  would  hear  him  play.  This  startled  her. 
She  wanted  to  hear  him  play.  Music  from  him,  she 
could  bear.  She  would  go  to  Cliftondale.  He 
need  never  know  she  was  there. 

Saturday  morning  dragged  on.  Ten,  twenty, 
fifty.  Wrapping,  pasting,  and  her  blood  rushing 
with  excitement.  She  would  go  that  very  eve 
ning. 

After  lunch,  she  went  alone  to  the  North  Station, 
261 


INDELIBLE 

avoiding  Green  Street,  her  heart  pounding.  She 
sought  the  train  schedule  on  the  wall  of  the  waiting 
room.  A  train  to  Cliftondale  at  7.20.  She  would 
take  it.  All  afternoon  she  walked  the  streets.  The 
clocks  dragged.  What  frightful  things  are  hours  in 
which  the  world  stands  still.  At  last  the  train 
backed  in  clumsily,  bumping  the  posts  at  the  end  of 
the  track.  She  was  the  first  to  enter,  the  top  of  her 
head  prickling,  hands  clasping  and  unclasping  im 
patiently. 

The  ridiculous  train  started,  and  after  jerks  and 
bumps  like  a  dog  with  a  heavy  sled,  it  came  to 
groaning  rest  in  the  wailing  back  yards  of  East 
Somerville.  Clank,  hop,  a  slide,  and  a  stop  by  a 
neglected  cemetery.  Lena's  nervousness  grew  al 
most  to  fright.  Never  had  she  been  in  such  a  state. 
She  sat,  half  dazed,  wishing  she  could  get  out,  legs 
lacking  strength  to  do  so. 

"Cliftondale!"  — a  harsh  conductor  in  her  ear. 
She  jumped.  Her  heart  stopped.  She  was  rooted  to 
the  seat.  The  stop  lengthened.  It  seemed  an  hour. 
At  last  she  rose,  supporting  herself  on  the  moth- 
eaten  seats.  She  dragged  herself  to  the  dim  door 
way  and  fifty  feet  ahead  she  saw  an  apparition. 

SAMUEL,  shabby,  in  overalls  and  an  old  gray 
262 


ERASERS 

shirt,  peering  into  the  baggage-car,  a  station  agent's 
cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  lifting  out  a  trunk. 

"All  aboard!"  Jerk!  The  train  started.  She  col 
lapsed  to  the  rear  seat,  limp  and  helpless. 

Samuel  a  station  agent,  lifting  trunks,  peering 
into  cars  with  his  sad-looking  glasses!  Fingeri 
pointed  at  her  from  the  dismal  corners  of  the  jerky 
train.  She  was  to  blame.  Strains  of  music  floated 
back  to  her.  Looks  of  understanding,  when  they 
had  agreed  perfectly  on  the  interpretation  of  a  del 
icate  phrase  at  the  first  reading,  flashed  through 
her  mind.  She  had  pictured  him  at  the  piano,  in 
evening  clothes,  perhaps,  playing  with  his  naive 
sincerity. 

"All  out!"  The  end  of  the  line.  She  found 
herself  in  Lynn,  sick,  weak,  demoralized.  Her 
thoughts,  which  had  shifted  from  her  own  misfor 
tune,  attacked  her  far  more  bitterly  from  a  new 
direction. 

She  sat  in  the  station  and  gathered  strength. 
Weakly,  she  proceeded  to  the  bulletin.  No  more 
trains.  What  should  she  do?  She  asked  a  grufT 
policeman,  and  was  directed  to  the  trolley  cars. 
Half  an  hour  she  waited,  fearing  she  was  in  the 
wrong  place,  but  at  last  a  car  marked  Boston  with 

263 


INDELIBLE 

nick  electric  lights.  An  hour  and  a  half  she  bumped 
jind  jarred  on  uneven  rails,  and  from  the  dark,  ac 
cusing  fingers,  and  the  sight  of  a  shabby  station 
agent,  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  peered  in, 
searching  for  some  one. 

She  thought  of  his  hands.  Great,  strong  hands 
with  capable,  lithe  fingers,  terrible  in  fortissimo, 
light  as  swallows'  wings  in  the  whispered  passages. 

She  arrived  at  Scollay  Square  and  walked  home 
ward,  trembling.  Mary  was  wild.  Where  had  she 
been?  Why  did  she  not  tell  her  she  would  be  away? 
The  Italian  girl's  hysteria  faded  as  she  saw  Lena's 
face.  Their  arms  encircled  one  another,  and  Lena 
sobbed  her  story.  Her  first  real  burst  of  confidence. 

The  night  was  spent  in  tears  and  different  sorts 
of  prayers,  but  Mary  saw  a  gleam  of  light.  A  spark 
of  love. 


LIGHT 

MONDAY  passed,  wrapping,  thinking,  pasting. 
Shame  had  come  to  Lena.  Her  shattered  violin  re 
buked  her.  Why  had  her  rage  added  to  her  tor 
ment  ?  At  least,  she  might  have  plucked  the  strings. 
Samuel's  face,  crowned  by  a  station  agent's  capi 
was  constantly  before  her. 

Tuesday,  and  another  face  came  to  her,  a  kind, 
old  German  who  had  loved  her  as  a  father.  Tues 
day!  Why,  Tuesday  was  the  night  the  quartette 
gathered  in  the  alley  of  old-timers.  She  would  go. 
She  would  go  and  beg  forgiveness.  They  would 
understand. 

Night  came  at  last.  As  Lena  approached  the  shop 
of  Kugel,  she  heard  sounds  like  a  great  organ  of 
violins  and  deeper  strings.  Chords,  each  separate 
note  of  which  throbbed  and  vibrated  from  the  direct 
touch  of  aged  fingers.  Angels  fluttered  o'er  the 
small  square  patch  of  sky  that  domes  the  alley  of 
old-timers. 

Adagio,  Sonata  Pathetique. 

Hope.  Not  the  glimmering,  senseless  mirage, 
half  disbelieved  within,  but  the  firm,  uplifting 

265 


INDELIBLE 

hope   which   rests   on   solid  faith  in   the   Great 
Goodness  somewhere. 

The  violin,  throbbing  above  the  rest,  led  the 
heavenly  song.  The  'cello  sustained,  with  a 
counter  melody,  on  strong  and  willing  shoulders. 
Between  them  the  viola  and  second  violin  played 
the  parts  of  the  humble  and  meek. 

The  fervent  opening,  at  the  third  measure, 
soared  upward  toward  the  infinite,  and  Lena's 
spirit  soared  apace.  Out  of  the  world  of  mangled 
bodies,  out  of  the  wreck  of  cherished  hopes,  up  and 
up,  shedding  the  shackles  of  bitterness,  sailing 
serene  at  the  close,  where  nothing  of  earth  could 
approach  it. 

Yes,  it  was  Beethoven;  who  else  sends  angels  to 
lift  up  the  courage  of  despairing  girls? 

Silence  within. 

Lena  entered  the  shop  and  Herr  Kugel  looked 
up.  He  wiped  his  spectacles,  he  staggered  to  his 
feet,  and  as  his  arms  opened,  a  wealth  of  raven 
hair  flung  close  to  Adolph's  silver  white,  sobbing. 

The  others  did  not  move.  They  felt  the  presence 
of  something  holy.  After  a  silent  moment,  Adolph 
stepped  back,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  his 
bow  swept  the  strings. 

£66 


ERASERS 

"Be  Thou,  O  God,  Exalted  High!" 
Instant  sprang  the  other  bows  to  place  and  the 
Te  Deum  sounded  forth  exultantly.  If  that  burst  of 
frenzied  gratitude  never  reached  its  mark,  burn  the 
churches  and  cathedrals,  smash  the  gilded  organs, 
melt  the  silver  platters,  tear  the  black  and  solemn 
gowns. 

WHO  knows  the  meaning  of  white  light,  after 
months  of  self -imprisoned  darkness?  Lena  sat  on 
the  floor  by  Herr  Kugel's  chair,  head  resting  on  his 
knee.  Hours  they  played,  all  their  favorites,  but 
after  the  Te  Deum,  nothing  sad  or  solemn.  It  was  a 
gala  night.  Rollicking  minuets  of  Haydn,  delicate 
minuets  of  Mozart,  an  arrangement  of  the  Schu 
mann  "Grillen,"  that  whimsical  composer's  con 
ception  of  the  sensations  of  man  with  a  flea.  "Now 
you  feel  it,  now  you  don't." 

At  parting,  Adolph  said,  "I  never  blamed  you, 
Liebchen;  why  did  you  stay  away?  You  will  never 
forsake  us  again?" 

Lena  nodded  and  dried  her  eyes. 

"Years  ago,  it  was  the  little  girl  I  lost.  Did  you 
think  I  cared  more  for  the  violin  than  for  you? 
There  are  greater  workmen  than  I  to  make  violins." 

207 


INDELIBLE 

NEXT  morning,  Lena  welcomed  the  sun,  alive,  tri 
umphant.  An  announcement  in  the  morning  paper 
caught  her  eye. 

Jacques  Thiron,  after  a  two  years'  absence,  will  open 
an  extensive  tour  of  the  United  States  by  a  recital  in 
Boston,  at  Symphony  Hall,  Sunday,  October  8.  He  is 
well  known  to  music-lovers  of  this  city  as  a  faithful  in 
terpreter  of  the  classics  who  plays  sincerely  and  with 
authority.  Thiron  never  permits  his  performance  to  de 
generate  to  a  mere  display  of  virtuosity.  His  superb 
technique  is  the  means  to  an  end.  He  will  be  more  than 
welcome. 

The  programme  has  not  yet  been  announced. 

Lena  reveled  in  her  joy  at  the  shifting  of  music 
from  a  torment  to  a  God-send.  That  very  day, 
she  purchased  tickets  for  herself  and  Mary  and 
wrapped  tin  cans  in  tissue  paper  through  the  hours 
of  the  week,  tingling  with  rapturous  anticipation. 


MUSIC 

Music  is  not  all  for  those  who  laugh.  It  draws  the 
poisoned  fangs  of  grief  and  misery.  It  sings  the  song 
of  higher,  universal  things.  Its  voice  is  one  which  all 
may  understand. 

Let  the  timid  come  for  inspiration. 

Let  the  hasty  come  for  calm. 

Let  the  heavy-hearted  bare  their  breast  to  it.  Music 
has  been  wrought  for  such  as  they. 


269 


PART  V:  LET  THEM  LIVE! 


PART  V:  LET  THEM  LIVE! 
BANG  GOES  THE  ROLL-TOP  DESK ! 

TROUBLES  never  leave  singly. 

Thiron  came  to  Boston  on  the  Monday  before 
the  opening  concert,  and  I  had  to  work  at  the  sta 
tion  right  up  to  the  Saturday  before  his  arrival,  on 
account  of  the  difficulty  the  railroad  had  in  finding 
anybody  else  who  was  as  hard  up  for  a  job  as  I  was. 
"When  he  asked  me  if  I  had  spent  the  summer  at 
the  seashore,  I  told  him  I  was  detained  in  town 
by  transportation  matters. 

We  worked  hard  on  the  programme.  I  practiced 
every  morning  and  rehearsed  with  him  after 
noons. 

THE  news  spread  fast  in  Cliftondale,  and  Monday 
evening,  as  father  and  Miss  Stoddard  were  play 
ing  seven-up,  Mrs.  Tomlinson  came  in  to  congratu 
late  me.  She  said  she  knew  I  had  it  in  me. 

"I  wish  I  could  stop  in  Heaven  long  enough  to 
hear  you  say  'I  told  you  so'  to  God,"  Miss  Stod 
dard  said. 

273 


INDELIBLE 

The  old  lady  got  real  huffy  and  said  that  her 
good  intentions  did  n't  call  for  blasphemy. 

"Play  some  shaky  music,  Sam,"  said  Miss  Stod- 
dard. 

"Your  deal,"  said  father. 

THE  sounding-post  came  down  in  one  of  Thiron's 
violins  on  Tuesday  afternoon,  so,  after  we  finished 
rehearsing,  I  walked  with  him  to  a  funny  shop 
where  he  talked  a  half  an  hour  with  a  white-haired 
old  German  named  "Herr  Kugel."  All  the  shops 
in  the  alley  were  antique  and  I  did  n't  see  a  per 
son  under  sixty.  There  were  queer,  tumble-down 
wooden  buildings  and  board  signs  of  print-shops 
and  theatrical  goods  and  bookstores.  Before  we 
left,  three  old  men  came  in  with  two  violins  and 
a  'cello.  It  seems  they  have  a  string  quartette. 
Thiron  shook  hands  with  all  of  them  and  said  he 
would  like  to  remain  if  it  were  not  for  a  previous 
engagement. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  chamber  music,"  he  said. 

The  quartette  was  tuning  up  as  we  left.  How  a 
violin  must  suffer  being  tuned! 

"It  puzzles  me  that  there  are  so  few  string 
quartettes  in  America,"  Thiron  said  as  we  walked. 

274 


LET     THEM     LIVE' 

"Surely  there  is  no  more  delightful  form  of  instru 
mental  music,  and  it  is  comparatively  inexpensive. 
Incredible  as  it  seems,  I  have  known  hotel  dining- 
rooms  where  snare  drummers  and  cornetists  were 
engaged  and  the  drummers  were  permitted  to  bang 
all  sorts  of  queer  hardware  while  dinner  was  being 
served.  Even  the  cannibals  use  the  softer  tympani. 
"It  has  been  said  that  your  American  'Jazz,' 
as  you  term  it,  is  evolved  from  the  music  of  the 
savages,  but  this  is  unjust.  The  savage  has  a 
quite  perceptible  sense  of  balance.  His  flutes  and 
pipes  and  tom-toms  and  crude  xylophones  blend 
quite  well,  and  one  does  not  obliterate  the  other. 
The  primitive  rhythms  are  entirely  free  from  syn 
copation.  The  rag-time  does  not  come  from  the 
Orient,  for  the  rhythm  of  the  Eastern  music  is 
soothing.  I  have  never  arrived  at  a  satisfactory  ex 
planation  of  the  folk-songs  of  the  American  music 
halls.  The  words  are  so  idiomatic  that  I  am  not 
able  to  follow  them." 

SUNDAY  noon,  I  started  to  get  into  my  tuxedo  and  I 
had  to  leave  my  necktie  untied  until  I  called  for 
Ethel.  She  certainly  did  look  beautiful.  For  once, 
she  did  not  have  square  clothes,  but  a  sort  of  silver 

275 


INDELIBLE 

gray,  with  lace  over  it  and  gray  suede  slippers. 
Then  she  had  a  squirrel  fur  piece  around  her  neck 
and  a  small  hat  with  a  little  fur  on  it. 

"I  mortgaged  the  old  place  for  this  demi-mon- 
daine  scenery,  in  honor  of  your  debut,"  Ethel  said, 
as  she  tied  my  white  tie. 

Before  the  concert,  Thiron  was  nervous  and  ex 
cited. 

"I  cannot  forget  the  terrible  experience  I  had 
before  in  Boston.  I  have  placed  the  same  Sonata 
on  the  programme  to-day,"  he  said.  He  paced  up 
and  down,  and  then  one  of  his  violin  strings  broke, 
worst  of  all,  the  "A."  That  upset  him  still  more. 
Strange  to  say,  I  was  as  cool  as  could  be  and  di 
verted  his  mind  by  discussing  the  League  of  Na 
tions. 

The  bell  rang  and  we  walked  across  the  stage. 
What  a  reception  he  received!  Every  seat  in  the 
house  was  occupied  and  the  force  of  the  audience 
struck  my  face  like  a  gust  of  air  from  a  ventilator. 
The  last  thing  Thiron  said  before  we  came  out  was 
that  he  would  repeat  the  second  period  of  the  trio. 

After  the  applause  died  down,  I  stood  up  a  mo 
ment  to  make  sure  the  post  was  solid  under  the 
piano  lid.  It  is  a  habit  I  cannot  break.  As  I 

276 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

touched  it,  I  heard  a  little  stifled  scream  in  the  bal 
cony,  almost  over  the  stage  on  the  right. 

The  strangest  sensation  came  over  me.  I  knew 
from  that  moment  that  Lena,  my  Lena,  was  in  the 
hall  and  I  should  find  her.  Stranger  still,  I  felt  con 
tent  to  play  to  the  end  of  the  programme,  for  I 
knew  she  would  wait  for  me.  I  seemed  to  be  float 
ing  above  myself,  looking  down,  calm  as  night, 
happier  than  senses  would  grasp. 

Sonata  for  Violin  and  Piano,  Opus  24,  Bee 
thoven. 

The  first  movement  sang  a  deeper  thing  than 
spring.  It  seemed  to  be  the  idea  that  spring  is  cir 
cling  around  the  universe,  that  it  is  always  com 
ing,  that  we  may  be  always  sure  of  it.  The  buds 
and  flowers  do  not  worry.  They  know  the  secret. 
They  know  their  seed  will  come  to  life  again  for 
endless  springs.  The  water  under  the  earth  rip 
pled  joyously  because  it  has  proof  again  that  win 
ter's  ice  will  melt  in  time.  The  sunshine  was  glad 
for  them  all. 

The  adagio  is  the  quiet  of  a  warm  spring  sky  at 
night,  ending  with  a  shimmer  of  moonlight  across  a 
silent  river. 

Then  the  scherzo.  The  notes  of  violin  and  piano 
277 


INDELIBLE 

chased  each  other  like  two  squirrels  up  and  down 
a  birch,  delighting  the  eyes  of  a  crippled  child, 
the  last  just  whisking  his  tail  out  of  sight  before 
the  trio.  We  played  through  the  trio  once,  and 
I  was  all  attention.  I  felt  something  about  to 
happen.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  I  saw  Thi- 
ron's  bow  drop  to  his  side.  Be  had  forgotten  the 
repeat  again.  The  same  identical  mistake  of  two 
years  before.  Just  what  he  told  me  he  would  not 
do. 

I  snatched  up  my  introduction  to  the  scherzo 
again,  without  a  break,  phrasing  it  boldly  and 
comically,  and  Thiron  smiled.  He  knew.  He  was 
not  flustered  a  bit. 

Unseen  black  eyes  called  to  me  from  the  bal 
cony.  I  knew  my  Lena  was  there.  I  knew  she 
would  wait  for  me. 

Behind  the  stage,  after  the  first  number,  Thi 
ron  was  so  grateful  he  almost  kissed  me. 

"You  have  saved  the  day,"  he  said.  "My  evil 
spirit  has  been  banished  from  Boston."  From  then 
on,  he  was  in  a  rare  mood. 

TOWARD  the  end,  I  began  to  get  excited  and  im 
patient.  I  thought  the  audience  would  never  let 

278 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

him  go.  After  his  last  programme  number,  he  made 
me  stand  and  bow. 

I  wish  I  could  bow  like  Thiron;  I  go  at  it  more 
like  Will  Rogers. 

At  last  I  was  free  and  rushed  to  the  corridor.  I 
saw  a  blue  silk  dress  coming  to  meet  me,  then  a 
white  slim  throat  and  coils  and  coils  of  blue-black 
hair.  Lena! 

She  saw  me  and  stopped,  dead-white  and  still, 
and  then  cried,  "Samuel!"  We  forgot  there  were 
other  people  in  the  world.  My  arms  were  around 
her.  I  kissed  her  hair,  as  she  held  tight  and 
sobbed. 

Just  then  Ethel  came  out.  It  seemed  to  me  she 
paled  a  little,  but  she  gave  me  the  wink  and  said, 

"I'll  toddle  right  along,  Sam.  I've  an  engage 
ment  in  town."  She  turned. 

"Who  was  that?"  Lena  wrenched  herself  away 
like  a  flash. 

"Just  a  neighbor,"  I  said.  Then  she  melted 
again  and  her  eyes  let  out  all  the  love  within. 

"You  don't  love  any  one  else,  Sam?" 

"I  have  never  loved  any  one  but  you."  (Which 
was  the  truth,  for  once.) 

Then  she  grew  frightened  suddenly.  "But  it 
279 


INDELIBLE 

can't  be  you,  Samuel !  I  saw  you  only  Saturday  in 
a  cap.  I  did.  Samuel,  it  can't  be  you!" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,  sweetheart.  If  it 
was  any  one  else,  I  would  n't  stand  here  and  watch 
them  make  love  to  you." 

THEN  I  saw  Mary  and  I  almost  kissed  her  too.  She 
made  an  excuse  to  go  away,  and  Lena  and  I  walked 
toward  the  Public  Garden.  For  a  while,  we 
scarcely  said  a  word.  Then  she  told  me  the  whole 
story,  how  she  had  gone  to  live  with  the  Le vines 
and  had  written  me  to  forget  her.  I  never  received 
the  letter. 

Lena  grew  very  grave  and  sad. 

"It  is  not  right  for  me  to  love  you,  Samuel.  The 
laws—" 

"Sweetheart,  what  is  the  sense  in  saying  a  thing 
is  wrong  or  right  if  we  cannot  live  without  it?  Peo 
ple  change  faster  than  the  laws.  If  we  do  what  our 
hearts  tell  us,  the  churches  will  catch  up  in  a  hun 
dred  years  or  so.  If  they  don't,  we  are  so  much 
better  off." 

Then  I  did  some  quick  thinking.  I  had  to  leave  for 
New  York  on  Thursday.  The  license  took  five  days, 
but  I  knew  Fred  Eldridge  could  fix  that  somehow. 

280 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

What  a  nuisance  laws  are! 

"We  must  be  married  to-morrow,  Lena,  and 
you  shall  make  the  trip  with  me." 

A  wave  of  scarlet  crept  up  from  under  the  blue 
silk  dress,  over  the  lovely  throat  and  face  and  into 
the  jet-black  hair.  She  hesitated  and  made  excuses 
and  said  she  must  think  it  over,  but  I  told  her  there 
would  be  plenty  of  time  for  that  afterwards  and  if 
she  did  n't  like  it,  we  could  easily  get  a  divorce. 

"Samuel,"  she  said  fiercely,  "don't  talk  like 
that!" 

WE  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  Garden  and  did  n't  even 
think  after  that  was  settled.  At  last  I  broke  the 
silence. 

"I'm  so  happy." 

"I'm  —  I'm  starved,"  said  Lena. 

AFTER  we  had  chop  suey  and  fried  chicken  and  ice 
cream  at  a  Chinese  restaurant,  we  started  for  Joy 
Street. 

I  wonder  who  a  Chink  can  marry  without  get 
ting  in  wrong  with  the  Joss.  Neither  of  them  ap 
pears  to  care  much. 


£81 


INDELIBLE 

MARY  met  us  at  the  door  wild  with  excitement. 
She  had  a  telegram  from  Pietro  to  meet  him  in  New 
York  right  away.  She  must  start  the  next  morn 
ing. 

"You  must  wait  for  our  wedding  at  eleven 
o'clock,"  I  said,  and  Mary  and  Lena  clasped  each 
other  and  began  to  cry. 

I  was  almost  afraid  to  leave  them  for  fear  of  los 
ing  them  again,  but  after  a  while  I  started  for  Clif- 
tondale.  At  that  time  of  night  I  had  to  walk  half 
the  way.  At  two  o'clock  I  woke  father,  all  excited, 
and  said: 

"Wake  up,  father.  I'm  going  to  be  married  to 
morrow." 

He  sat  up  and  blinked  and  said,  "What  the 
hell's  wrong?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  I  found 
Lena." 

"You  better  wait  till  the  day  after  so  you  can 
get  good  and  sober.  You  have  no  head  for  liquor, 
son." 

I  soon  convinced  him  I  was  sober,  and  I  sat  on 
his  bed  in  my  undertaker's  clothes  and  told  him 
what  we  were  going  to  do,  and  that  we  would  come 
back  next  summer  to  live  on  the  old  place.  After 

282 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

I  went  to  bed,  I  could  hear  him  turning  and  twist 
ing  and  neither  of  us  slept  a  wink. 

WE  were  married  without  disaster  by  a  justice  of 
the  peace.  I  did  n't  dare  to  take  a  chance  on  any 
minister  or  rabbi.  They  had  made  enough  trouble 
already.  Marriage  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  The 
trouble  comes  before  and  after. 

At  noon,  Mary  left  for  New  York,  trying  to  be 
happy,  but  I  could  see  she  was  worried.  She  told 
Lena  she  was  going  to  tell  Pietro  the  whole  story. 

ETHEL  wrote  me  a  long  letter,  saying  she  was  glad 
I  was  happy  and  that  there  were  no  hard  feelings. 
"If  I  were  you,"  she  wrote,  "I  should  not  tell 
your  wife  too  much  about  me,  because  I  want  to  be 
a  bosom  friend  to  her,  and  I  could  see  from  a  cas 
ual  glance  at  her  eyes,  that  if  she  was  ever  in 
cluded  in  an  eternal  triangle,  the  other  two  would 
both  be  dead.  While  I  meant  what  I  said  about 
loving  you,  and  have  n't  seen  any  reason  to  change 
my  mind,  I  am  not  quite  ready  to  face  my  Maker. 
There  may  be  some  other  desirable  young  man  who 
cannot  find  his  regular  girl  within  the  time  limit." 


THANKSGIVING 

HAPPINESS  is  hard  to  get  accustomed  to.  Riding  in 
the  trains,  often  I  would  reach  over  and  touch 
Lena's  arm  lightly  to  be  sure  she  was  there  beside 
me.  She  loves  to  see  the  new  places  and  to  watch 
the  fields  and  towns  and  hills  go  by  the  car  win 
dows. 

I  had  never  ridden  in  Pullmans  and  neither  had 
she,  but  we  watched  the  others  and  did  n't  attract 
much  attention.  You  ought  to  see  the  porters  run 
around  for  Lena.  Everybody  loves  her.  Father, 
on  our  wedding  morning,  got  out  his  old  black  suit 
and  his  old  Sunday  shirt  with  the  brown  marks  on 
it  from  the  iron.  During  the  performance,  I  no 
ticed  that  the  flaps  on  his  little  black  necktie  were 
out  on  one  side.  I  knew  he  was  sad,  but  he  did  n't 
let  on,  and  when  he  saw  Lena  in  her  blue  silk  dress 
(she  had  had  sleeves  put  in  it)  and  her  cream-white 
skin  and  glorious  black  hair,  he  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  and  said : 

"You  are  not  a  handsome  couple,  exactly,  but 
Sam  certainly  does  set  you  off,  Lena." 

Jacques  Thiron  is  as  happy  about  the  whole  busi- 
284 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

ness  as  I  am  myself.  He  says  that  love  and  music 
meet  somewhere,  way  beyond  the  stars.  We  three 
often  dine  together  on  the  road  and  he  says  it  is 
the  best  tour  he  ever  made.  He  is  composing  a 
quartette  in  G  minor,  dedicated  to  Lena. 

THANKSGIVING  afternoon,  we  played  at  Cincinnati, 
although  they  do  not  celebrate  it  there.  After  the 
recital,  Lena  went  to  our  room  to  take  a  little  rest, 
and  I  looked  over  the  town.  There  was  a  large 
news-stand  in  one  of  the  squares  and  I  spied  a  Bos 
ton  newspaper.  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  it.  As  I 
looked  it  over,  a  little  headline  caught  my  eye. 

JOY  STREET  SUICIDE 

Mary  Carbone,  of  Joy  Street,  killed  herself  by  taking 
poison  last  night.  The  suicide  followed  a  quarrel  with 
her  lover,  name  unknown,  according  to  the  story  of  the 
landlady,  Mrs.  K.  H.  Simmons.  Mrs.  Simmons  states 
that  Miss  Carbone,  some  weeks  before,  had  met  her 
fiance  returned  from  overseas  in  New  York,  but  had  re 
turned  to  Boston  at  once,  looking  ill,  and  had  been  de 
spondent  ever  since.  The  nature  of  the  quarrel  is  not 
known. 

MART.  Our  dear,  faithful  Mary.  I  walked  an  hour 

285 


INDELIBLE 

and  could  not  shut  out  her  face  as  I  saw  it  when 
she  boarded  that  New  York  train.  I  knew  then  she 
was  going  to  tell  that  miserable  barber  all  about 
herself.  I  would  have  strangled  him  if  I  could  have 
found  him. 

Thanksgiving  gives  me  a  pain  in  the  neck. 

As  soon  as  I  reached  the  hotel,  Lena  said, 
"What's  the  matter,  Sam?"  I  lied  about  eating 
something  or  other.  She  made  me  lie  down.  In  a 
few  minutes,  she  said,  thoughtfully, 

"  I  wonder  why  I  do  not  hear  from  Mary.  Where 
is  she  and  what  is  she  doing?  I  hope  she  is  happy." 

"She  is  happy,"  I  said,  turning  my  face.  "She 
could  n't  tell  where  to  find  us  while  we  are  travel- 
ing." 

MARY.    Our  dear,  faithful  Mary.    Catholic  laws 
will  not  leave  her  in  peace  even  after  death. 
God!  How  I  hate  laws. 


SAD  EYES 

WHEN  we  returned  to  Cliftondale,  at  the  close  of 
the  season,  we  found  a  stack  of  wedding  presents 
waiting  for  us.  In  the  first  place,  Miss  Stoddard 
had  given  us  her  library.  There  was  a  new  hard 
wood  floor  in  the  old  parlor,  new  panel  wall-paper, 
and  rows  and  rows  of  bookshelves.  Ethel  had  su 
perintended  the  decorations.  Lena  spent  the  first 
hour  looking  at  the  books  and  laughing  and  cry 
ing.  She  loves  books.  My  grand  piano  was  near 
one  corner,  and  beside  it,  a  bronze  bust  of  Bee 
thoven  which  Mr.  Flynn  had  sent. 

The  room  had  a  feeling  of  comfort  and  rest. 

Signor  Grazzoni  sent  a  large  half-tone  of  "The 
Thinker,"  by  Rodin.  "The  Thinker"  looks  like  an 
ice-man  I  knew  who  worked  his  way  through  col 
lege.  I've  seen  him  sit  up  on  the  seat  just  like  that, 
with  a  street  full  of  women  yelling  that  he  did  n't 
see  their  cards.  Of  course,  he  had  clothes  on. 

One  or  two  of  the  presents  were  sad.  Mrs. 
Brooks  gave  Lena  a  half-dozen  spoons,  and  the  day 
we  arrived  she  called  a  minute,  to  give  me  a  watch 
she  had  bought  for  Peter  to  wear  at  high  school. 

287 


INDELIBLE 

Peter  died  of  the  "flu"  in  Ireland,  where  the  Eng 
lish  sent  him  to  suppress  some  traitors  who  wanted 
Ireland  to  be  a  Republic  like  the  United  States. 

A  thing  that  made  Lena  very  happy  was  a  swell 
fur  sealskin  coat  sent  her  by  a  young  Jew  named 
Joseph  Levine.  Joseph  was  the  son  of  the  people 
Lena  lived  with  after  her  accident,  and  he  wanted 
to  marry  her. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  seemed  nervy  to  me  at  first 
that  a  Jew  should  think  of  marrying  my  Lena,  but 
I  thought  it  over  and,  of  course,  it  was  the  natural 
thing  to  do. 

If  you  start  out  wrong,  it  is  hard  to  remember 
that  everybody  is  as  good  as  you  are. 

Lena  was  touched  by  the  act,  because  she  was 
supposed  to  have  been  cast  out  of  the  tribe.  That 
stuff  does  n't  seem  to  go  with  the  young  people  in 
any  of  the  religions. 

Miss  STODDARD  and  Lena  spend  half  their  time  in 
the  yard.  Lena  can't  get  used  to  having  so  much 
room  outdoors,  and  thinks  Cliftondale  is  a  beauti 
ful  place  in  which  to  live.  She  is  planting  all  kinds 
of  flowers  and  bushes  and  makes  me  mow  the  lawn 
regularly.  Miss  Stoddard  helps  with  the  gardening 

288 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

and  she  can  make  two  violets  grow  where  Burbank 
would  get  one  chickweed.  The  old-barn  is  all  tacked 
over  with  strings  for  sweet  peas  to  climb  on. 

We  received  a  trunk  full  of  silver  and  dishes  of 
all  kinds  except  plates,  cups,  and  saucers.  Half  of 
the  funny  forks  and  spoons  we  did  not  know  how  to 
use,  and  a  jeweler's  catalogue  only  made  it  worse. 
There  is  an  olive  fork  that  you  could  catch  an  olive 
with  if  you  had  it  in  a  thimble.  Then  there  is 
a  left-handed  fish  server,  but  all  the  fish  from  the 
Atlantic  must  be  right-handed. 

Bill  Milliken  spent  half  the  winter  making  a 
black  walnut  music  cabinet.  One  thing  Lena  in 
sists  on  is  having  a  flag  on  the  front  piazza  roof 
every  pleasant  day. 

Imagine  flying  a  flag  in  peace  times. 

ONE  afternoon  I  was  pushing  the  lawnmower,  when 
I  heard  a  sound  like  a  billy-goat  — 

"  R-a-e-e-e-e-e-cks  —  debot!" 

Down  the  road  came  a  ragman  with  a  rickety 
wagon  and  a  bony  old  horse,  whose  ears  flopped  in 
jerky  rhythm  as  he  walked.  Lena  ran  down  the 
front  stairs  and  stopped  the  ragman  and  they  be 
gan  to  talk  in  Jewish.  The  ragman  perched  on  the 

289 


INDELIBLE 

high  seat  and  took  it  easy,  but  Lena  shot  out  sparks 
with  the  queer-sounding  words.  Pretty  soon  she 
came  to  me,  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck  and 
kissed  me  so  hard  her  glorious  hair  rippled  down 
her  back. 

"Samuel,  I  want  that  horse  to  remain  with  us. 
He  could  live  in  the  barn  and  I  will  take  care  of 
him." 

Dr.  McKenzie  had  told  me  that  she  might  be  a 
trifle  moody  in  her  condition,  but  I  did  n't  expect 
to  be  coaxed  into  the  glue  business. 

"You  and  father  have  been  hitting  up  that  elder 
berry  wine  again,"  I  said. 

Father  chuckles  every  time  Lena  drinks  a  glass 
of  wine  with  him.  He  can't  get  over  it. 

"No,  Samuel,  he  once  belonged  to  my  father." 

That  was  different,  of  course,  and  I  gave  the 
Jew  fifty  dollars.  The  next  morning  he  brought 
back  the  horse.  Lena  tends  him  as  if  he  were  an 
old  man.  One  night,  not  long  ago,  she  told  me 
about  how  the  horse  kept  her  out  of  the  Revere 
House  just  after  her  hand  was  hurt.  Then  I  told 
her  about  my  terrible  thoughts  and  how  I  was  ar 
rested  there.  Memories  of  that  kind  make  us  cling 
very  close  together. 

290 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

I  have  become  much  attached  to  the  horse  my 
self.  We  never  tie  him,  and  he  roams  all  around  the 
barn.  Father  sawed  off  the  top  half  of  the  door, 
so  the  old  rascal  can  stick  out  his  head  and  loolf 
around.  Father  has  a  way  with  horses,  and  some 
times  Lena  plagues  him  by  making-believe  she  is 
jealous. 

Often,  when  the  wise  old  horse's  head  sticks  out 
the  door  and  his  ears  stand  up  almost  erect,  Lena, 
watching  from  the  window,  murmurs  something 
like  "Olov  hasholom." 

"Olvo  hasholom"  means  "Peace  to  his  soul,"  so 
she  cannot  refer  to  Sad  Eyes. 


MONSIEUR  MILLIKEN 

JUST  before  our  season  commenced,  Jacques  Thi- 
ron  visited  our  home  and  we  had  a  most  pleasant 
evening. 

He  told  us  about  conditions  in  France  and  said 
he  would  make  a  European  tour  as  soon  as  Europe 
recovered  a  little.  Lena's  eyes  sparkled  at  that. 

Of  course,  we  could  not  keep  away  from  music, 
and  while  we  were  playing,  who  should  come  in  but 
Bill  Milliken.  Thiron  was  delighted  to  meet  him 
and  treated  him  like  the  Prince  of  Wales.  He  asked 
"Monsieur  Milliken"  what  he  would  like  best  to 
hear. 

Bill  is  a  hot-looking  Monsieur. 

"Beautiful  Sunset,"  said  Bill. 

Thiron  looked  puzzled,  but  I  played  it  through 
and  he  caught  on  immediately.  You  never  heard 
such  variations  of  that  old  song.  Bill's  eyes  stuck 
right  out  of  his  head.  At  last,  Lena  stood  up  and 
sang  the  words  in  her  soft  contralto,  while  Thiron 
played  an  obbligato  on  the  G  string.  Bill  could 
not  help  crying  just  a  little. 

"I  never  have  amounted  to  much,"  he  said, 
292 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

"but  music  like  that  makes  me  feel  as  if  everything 
would  be  all  right  sometime." 

Thiron  became  very  grave. 

"Monsieur  Milliken,"  he  said  precisely,  "you 
say  you  have  not  accomplished  great  things.  You 
do  yourself  injustice.  I  have  heard  the  story  of  how 
you  kindled  this  young  man's  desire  for  music.  It 
was  you  who  struck  the  spark.  It  was  you  who  fos 
tered  genius  where  others  did  not  discover  it.  I  an? 
grateful  to  you.  The  world  is  grateful." 

And  he  bowed  as  only  Thiron  can. 


THE  VIOLIN 

THE  baby  was  born  the  third  of  December.  For 
tunately  I  was  in  the  East  and  able  to  be  at  home 
for  the  event,  although  I  seemed  to  be  more  or  less 
superfluous. 

Lena,  a  perfect  little  girl  with  soft  white  skin  and 
black  eyes.  It  was  remarkable,  the  hair  that  child 
had  when  she  was  born.  She  will  be  the  greatest  in 
the  world,  if  temperament  counts. 

By  Christmas  Day,  Lena  was  around  the  house. 
How  happy  she  looked  with  little  Lena.  In  the  af 
ternoon  the  doorbell  rang,  and  who  should  be  there 
but  Thiron  and  the  quartette  of  old-timers  from 
the  violin  shop.  One  of  them,  Adolph  Kugel,  kept 
a  large  bundle  hidden  from  Lena. 

They  played  to  their  hearts'  content,  Haydn, 
Mozart,  Schubert,  Beethoven  —  happy  Christmas 
music,  and  Lena  fed  them  cakes  and  wine  between 
times.  At  last,  they  played  Thiron's  quartette  in 
G  minor  from  the  manuscript,  the  one  he  dedicatee1 
to  Lena. 

Then  Herr  Kugel,  shaking  with  happy  excite 
ment,  took  big  Lena  on  his  knee  and  said: 

294 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

"Liebchen,  I  have  a  surprise  for  you.  Always  I 
have  felt  there  would  be  a  little  Lena,  so  when  Herr 
Reinhardt  brought  me  your  violin,  I  repaired  it  and 
put  it  away  for  the  little  girl,  if  there  was  one.  Only 
the  neck  and  the  bridge  were  broken,  and  that  was 
nothing." 

Lena  paled  and  her  fingers  fumbled  as  she  tore 
off  the  paper  from  the  bundle.  There  was  a  leather 
case,  and  inside,  a  lady  violin  with  a  new,  smooth, 
thoroughbred  neck.  It  had  grace  and  symmetry 
and  soul.  The  perfect  back  shone  with  fine 
grained  beauty. 

Where  has  man  traced  such  patterns  as  are 
found  inside  of  trees? 


LET  THEM  LIVE! 

God  looks  o%er  the  world,  a  stupid,  cluttered  map  irith 
many  billion  eyes  for  dots,  upstaring  helter-skelter. 
The  eyes  are  always  bright  to  start  with.  Every 
morning  the  new  ones  are  bright.  Stillbirths  don't 
count. 

God  has  a  roll-top  desk,  and  in  the  pigeonholes, 
erasers. 

First  he  tries  a  brown  one,  Heritage.   He  rubs  the 
helter-skelter  map  and  weaker  dots  fade  out. 
Brush  away  the  debris. 

A  soiled  eraser,  Poverty,  sweeps  the  sheet.  Some  are 
called  and  many  weaken. 

Flick  the  dirt  away. 

Down  comes  Crime,  the  red  one,  and  eyes  are 
smudged  that  were  not  aimed  at.  Eruption,  Famine, 
Disease;  Storm,  Pestilence,  Drought.  He  tries  them 
all  at  times. 

Divine  Impatience!    A  sted  eraser,  War,  which 
gashes  tJie  map  and  wipes  great  dead-white  furrows. 
A  rotten  job  to  clean  this  time. 
296 


LET     THEM     LIVE! 

Believe  it  or  not,  there  are  still  bright  eyes  remain 
ing. 

Bang  goes  the  lid  of  the  roll-top  desk. 
Let  them  live  I 


THE  END 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S. 


CAT.    NO.    24    161 


000589223     7 


